


Shell Cottage

by Roselightfairy



Series: Malfoy Manor [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Battle of Hogwarts, Canon-Typical Violence, Claustrophobia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Healing, Panic Attacks, Some dialogue taken from the books, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 18:30:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 33,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13576449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy
Summary: Sequel to Kidnapped! Luna has been rescued from Malfoy Manor, but healing from that experience isn't as easy as it appears - especially when there is still another battle to be fought. Mild Neville/Luna, hints of canon couples.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is another really old story. Please don't judge me.

The first night, she sleeps under the stars.

Well, that’s not quite true – the first night is already underway as soon as she arrives, and she spends the whole time awake, listening to the conversations and helping to bury the bravest house-elf she’s ever known, but the second night she sleeps, and she sleeps outside.

Bill and Fleur try to convince her not to – it’s cold outside, the ground will get wet, what if the tide comes in? – but they can’t tell her it’s not _safe,_ can they, not when they’ve just put the Fidelius Charm up, so she eventually wears them down.

She’s been inside too long.  At the first blessed taste of fresh air her lungs contracted – the pleasure almost painful, and she was giddy.  Though it hurt, she couldn’t stop breathing it in.  She spoke to Bill when he came to the door, and he let them into the house but she didn’t want to go in. She wanted to stay outside forever.

But now there’s a Fidelius Charm, and it’s safe to be outside, and she can’t stand to spend any more time shut away, even if it will keep her safe.

She needs to heal.

She thinks that some part of her recognizes that after this, she will never be fully healed.  Something was lost in that cellar, some part of her has been sucked up by the darkness.  It’s too soon to know what part that was, but she hopes it was small.

And even the small fact that she can still hope gives her hope.

During the day, after they buried and honored Dobby, Dean, Bill, and Fleur slept.  Eventually, so did Harry, Ron, and Hermione.  And Mr. Ollivander has been sleeping since they arrived.

She didn’t.  She couldn’t.

It was too much all at once – light, fresh air, space.  She doesn’t have to curl up in a tiny ball in a dark and dirty cellar anymore.  She can breathe.

But it’s such a shock still – it hurts.  She saw herself in the mirror, and though little surprises her and that shouldn’t have, she couldn’t help a gasp of shock.

Her hair is too long – too long and too thin and tangled and stained and still flecked with blood.  It’s grown dark from months of darkness, even as her skin is now almost as pale as the Gray Lady.  She is all bone – figure skeletal, and none of the clothes that any of them can offer fit her.

Bill and Fleur offered her food – pressed it onto her, really – but she couldn’t eat it.  Two bites, maybe.  Her stomach has shrunk to a miniscule size.

Fleur fretted when she wouldn’t eat, and now that she’s seen herself she can understand why, but she couldn’t.

They couldn’t take care of her medically.  They healed the cuts and bruises on Dean’s face, the gashes on Hermione and Griphook after the chandelier dropped them – even Mr. Ollivander is too exhausted not to sleep.  They can’t do so much for him, but they can do a little.

There’s nothing they can do for her.

Sickness can be healed.  Direct injuries.  There are even potions for the aftereffects of torture, just to lessen the pain.

Her pain is something else entirely.

She’s experiencing more pain now than she has in months – she was in the cellar for months; she knows the date now – because she somehow sank away.  Curled up.  Hid inside herself, in a place where the pain wouldn’t reach her.  And now it’s here – bright, loud, bold.  Life has caught up to her.

It hurts, but if it didn’t hurt, she wouldn’t know it was real.

She finds a blanket.  Two blankets.  Wraps them up into a bundle, with a pillow, tugs them into her arms, hauls them outside.  She’s become painfully weak – no muscles left in her arms or legs, and she has to stop and rest even on the short journey outside.

The stars are out.  She can see them – it’s been so long, she’s almost forgotten what they look like.  But Daddy taught her the constellations – Orion, the Big Dipper, and so many more – and some of the original stars.  She lingers on Sirius, tries to skip Bellatrix altogether.

But that star seems the brightest to her, burning under her eyelids, and all she can hear is the awful voice – “Do you like games, little loon? . . . Oh, this one does like to play . . .” – ringing in her ears.

But she’s safe, she reminds herself.  Over and over, “I’m safe.”

Her voice is reedy, as though it will snap any moment.  Somehow, she manages to murmur her Mermish song to herself.  She rolls onto her stomach, pushes the pillow aside, presses her face into the grass. Inhales its clean scent.

Footsteps.  Someone is coming.

She listens to the breathing.  Deeper and heavier – a man.  It’s not Mr. Ollivander.  She’s become so attuned to every sound he makes over the last few months.  And he couldn’t walk out here, anyway.

She knows what Harry, Ron, and Dean sound like, and this is none of them.  They wouldn’t be coming out here anyway.

“Hello, Bill,” she says, her face still pressed into the grass.

The footsteps stop, not far from her head.  “How did you know it was me?”

“I heard you coming,” she replies simply.  Rolls onto her back again, fixes her gaze once more on the stars.  She tries to separate Bellatrix Lestrange from hers.  It isn’t the star’s fault that she cringes at the woman’s name.

Weight, gently settling onto the ground beside her.  Rustling noises and a gentle breeze.  Bill has brought a bedroll of his own; he settles down.

“Why did you want to sleep out here?” he asks.

“Because it’s all out here,” she replies.  That’s the best way she can phrase it – everything beautiful, everything that matters, everything she’s been deprived of for the last three months – all of it can be found out here, under the stars.

Her eyes focus on the moon.  _Luna_.  It’s much brighter than all the other stars, and she wonders if this isn’t a sign.  Bellatrix may be imprinted on her eyelids for now, just as the woman may have scarred her forever, but the moon is brighter.  Luna will keep shining, just as brightly as before.

The moon hasn’t gone out.  Just as Bellatrix’s star won’t, when the woman is finally gone from the earth.  The concerns of the stars are so much greater than these petty human affairs.

Mars is bright.  The centaurs have been saying that for years.  Not everyone has the talent for Divination, but it exists.  It may be difficult, but it is no less real for that.

“I see,” says Bill finally.

She wonders why he decided to join her.  Turning onto her side, she can see that he’s not sleeping.  His open eyes reflect the starlight, and his hand is clenched tightly around his wand.

“Do you not trust the Fidelius Charm?” she asks.

He shrugs, wearily.  “You can never be too careful.”  He pauses.  “And I couldn’t let them take you _again_ , especially not when you’ve only just escaped.  Who knows if you would survive this time – and I’d never be able to face Ginny again.”

_Ginny._   Luna has thought of her at least once a day since she was captured – as far as she knows, as to how long a day is.  “Is she all right?” she asks.

“Yes.”  Bill expels the word in a long sigh.  “They all are.”

_For now,_ he doesn’t say.  And she doesn’t reply.

“You should go to sleep,” he says, after a time has passed.  They both lie awake, staring at the stars.

“I don’t know if I can,” she murmurs.

Too much.  Too much all at once – too much bad and too much good and the world is too much.

But it’s still here.  She’s woken up at last, and the world has not deserted her.

And finally, her exhaustion carries her off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

When she wakes up, the sun is rising.

She can’t move at first, just lies there, gazing at the rim of pink slowly washing across the gray sky.  The faintest sliver of the moon is still visible, but it looks like the edge of a cloud against the gray.

She turns to the side.  Bill fell asleep at some point in the night; he is lying on his side, long hair splayed across his neck, wand still held loosely in one hand.  He looks young, innocent, though he’s so much older than she is.

But he’s been a member of the Order of the Phoenix for years now.  When has he ever been innocent?

She stands up.  The grass is dewy under her bare feet.  She feels more alive than she has in a long time.  That’s not saying much, but it is something.

She stands, picks up her blankets and pillow, now soaked through.  If she had a wand, she could dry them, but hers is – she wonders where it is.  Who picked up the splinters from the floor of the Hogwarts Express?  Neville?  Or did the Death Eaters clean up after themselves?

It doesn’t sound like them, somehow.

One of them must have it – Ginny or Padma or Neville.

Neville.

She whispers his name soundlessly, tasting the syllables on her lips.  She wonders how he’s doing.

How the whole DA is doing, when it comes to that.  She prays that they’re fine, that the problems haven’t escalated beyond what they were when she was taken.  But it’s been months . . . and she knows they would never have given up.

She wishes she could contact them, but she lost her DA coin somehow during the struggle – it must have fallen out of her pocket when the Death Eaters took her from the train.  She wonders if they have been wondering about her, the whole time she was trapped in that cellar.

The pink and gold tints are edging across the sky now, the gray almost completely faded.  She’s tired, already, from standing for so long; she sits back on the grass, hugs the pillow to her chest.  Listens to the waves lapping in gently from the distant shore.

It’s beautiful here.  It seems at odds with the rest of the world, where such ugly, terrible things are happening.  Like a tiny oasis in the middle of a barren desert.  Or the eye of a storm.

Overused metaphors, but no less true for it.

Bill stirs, turning gently in his sleep, but doesn’t wake up.  Luna stands again, carrying her blankets with her, and returns to the cottage to drop them off.

But as soon as she opens the door, she can hear talking – Harry, Ron, Hermione speaking in hushed voices, breaking off as soon as she enters.  She brings her bedding into the bathroom, where Fleur told her to leave it, returns to the front room and looks at the trio.

“It’s beautiful here,” she says simply.

Harry’s eyes are wide, tormented; Hermione’s concerned; Ron’s edgy.  Their heads are bent close together.  None of them speaks at first.  They look as though they are trying to keep a secret from her.  As though they want to tell her, and don’t want to at the same time.

“What do you not want to tell me?” she asks, perhaps too openly, but there’s something there and she thinks that she deserves to know.

They look at her, uneasily, maybe surprised.  The silence stretches out between them, but she waits.

“Your father,” says Harry finally, as though he’s admitting something that he didn’t want to.  “We saw him.”

“Daddy?” A burst of hope flares in her heart.  “Is he – is he okay, without me?”

“Not – not exactly,” whispers Hermione, her eyes beginning to glisten.  Luna reaches out and takes her hand; Hermione flinches at first, but relaxes and returns the pressure.

“He tried to sell us to the Death Eaters,” says Ron bluntly.  “In exchange for you.”

“Oh, no – Daddy wouldn’t” – but as she says it, she knows it’s not true, knows that her father’s love for her has no bounds, and once again ponders how lucky she is to have such a wonderful father, so unlike Harry, or Neville.  “Is he all right?” Her voice comes out as a whisper.

“We don’t – we don’t know,” answers Hermione finally.  “We escaped – obviously – but it was close.  The Death Eaters caught him.  I modified his memory.  We heard on _Potterwatch_ that he’d been captured.  But not killed.  I don’t think.”

_Daddy._

“Thank you,” she says.  They look surprised – Harry opens his mouth to ask a question – but she just pats his hand and turns around.

She goes back outside, back to where Bill is still lying.  She sits beside him, gazes off into the distance.

She isn’t surprised – not really.  She should have known that her father would do anything to get her back.  It’s one of the reasons she loves him so much.

But if he had turned in Harry –

Her daddy is a good person.  He would never do something like that if he thought he had any other choice.  She can imagine what he must have been thinking.

_Daddy._

Please, let him be all right, she prays.  Please, let him be all right.

And above her, the sun continues to edge across the sky.


	3. Chapter 3

About an hour later, Bill wakes up.

He stirs, briefly, mumbles, and then springs to his feet, shaking his hair back from his face, staring wildly around.  He spots Luna, sitting serenely beside him, looks at her.  The brief innocence she saw on his face is gone now.  He looks old, too old.  Older than he should be.

He is young.  He is a son, a brother, a new husband.  Not a father, but he will be one, someday.  Or, he might be.

Why does the war steal these things away from them, wonders Luna.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” he asks.

“”You needed to sleep,” she replies simply.

“And you didn’t?

“I couldn’t.”  She pauses, considers.  “It was too much.”

He pauses, looks curious, but instead of asking he clamps his mouth shut, shakes his head, stands.  Stretches, arms to the sky.  Luna remains sitting.

“Do you want breakfast?” asks Bill eventually.  “I’m sure Fleur’s making something . . .”

“Maybe,” she murmurs.  Truthfully, she’s not sure if she can eat.  Not today.  Not after everything.  Her stomach rolls unhappily, curled tightly in on itself; she doesn’t think it will expand so easily.

Instead she lies back, pillows her head against her left arm.  Her legs are open, forty-five degrees apart, and her right arm thrown over her eyes.  If it really is late March, then it’s Slashkilter season, and they always go for the eyes.  But sharp points frighten them; thus the scissorlike angle of her legs.  And if you keep your eyes hidden, they won’t find you as easily.

The sun’s warm on her elbow, soft red lights behind her eyes.  She hasn’t seen anything but darkness in months, doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to go inside again.  It’s too beautiful out here.

But there’s another side of her, a part that she’s managed to bury – for the moment – that wants to be in the dark.  That is crying out for her to leave the sun, leave the warmth, dig a hole, and bury herself inside.  Darkness. Cold.  Death.

She’s ignoring it, but it’s there.  And it scares her.

The red beneath her eyelids fades, slowly, into darkness. There is only blackness there now.

And then the screaming starts.

Mr. Ollivander is screaming, screaming, screaming – it is echoing in her ears, piercing shrieks ringing off of the walls of the manor, and she can do nothing, nothing but curl into a ball, because she has no wand and no power and no courage . . . she is helpless, and she is being swallowed by the darkness . . .

Her eyes snap open.  She is gasping, gasping for breath, she feels like a dementor is coming, but there’s nothing – no one else seems to feel a thing.  The sun is still shining brightly, but for her, there is a shadow there.

Cold sweat runs down her face; she wipes it away with her shirtsleeve.  Fleur gave her some fresh clothes to change into, discarding the soiled, ripped robes she was wearing on the train, three months ago.

Three months.

Acid wells in her throat; she clamps a hand over her mouth, forces the nausea back down.  But her throat is still hard, taut, and she can’t tell if it’s from tears or fear.  She doesn’t know if she wants to know.

She presses her face into the grass, but it doesn’t feel as beautiful as it did before.  Doesn’t feel as fresh.

She jumps to her feet; still barefoot, somehow she feels as though the world is poison; she runs, runs all the way back to the cottage, ducks through the door, gasping for breath, and stops.

She doesn’t know where to go, but she knows that she needs to find somewhere, somewhere small and enclosed and dark, where she can curl up.

She’s never felt this way before, as though a gaping abyss is opening inside of her, and it scares her.  She’s afraid it will swallow her whole, afraid she won’t be able to escape this time.

Her chest is heaving – hard breathing and sobs and her heart rising in her chest and into her throat, where it sticks, pounds, hurts –

The bedroom where she was supposed to sleep, with Hermione – it is empty.  She closes the door behind her, sinks to the floor behind the bed, wedges herself into the corner. Sobs rip at her chest.

Mr. Ollivander. Hermione. Draco. Even Dolohov, Macnair – the way they were treated, the fear they had.  What kind of a world is it when people are forced to live in fear of pain and death?

She calms down, eventually.  The tears stop.  Her breath slows.  She’s still shaking, shaking all over, but she remains there, in the corner of the room, curled into a tight ball.

She plays her lullaby in her head, on a slow loop.  Closes her eyes, imagines that it is her mother’s voice singing, her mother’s soft hands stroking her hair from her face.

Just because they have never seen her break down doesn’t mean that it doesn’t happen.

But now she breathes.  Now she uncurls from her ball and lies flat on her back on the floor and breathes.

“Luna?” The door opens a crack, and Hermione peers in.  She’s gotten better – only a little shaky, and the red line on her throat has faded to a dark pink.  Her face is still unusually pale, but not as hollow as before.  “Are you in here?”

She doesn’t look up, remains lying on her back, and loosens her muscles.  She drifts out of herself for a moment, letting her voice fall into its usual vague quality.  “Hello, Hermione.”

“Are you all right?” asks Hermione.  She looks concerned, but at least it is dark in here and she can’t see Luna’s face.

“I’m perfectly fine.”

Her voice breaks a little on the last syllable, but Hermione is tactful enough to pretend not to notice.  She may be good at figuring out emotions, but she doesn’t know how to react to them.

“Well,” says Hermione, “if you’re hungry, Fleur’s made breakfast.”

“Perhaps I’ll come down in a bit,” replies Luna, still holding herself as loosely as possible, keeping her voice blank.  “At the moment I’m not very hungry.”  Her stomach wrenches at the thought of food, rejects the very idea.

Hermione hesitates, opens her mouth to speak, closes it again.  Fidgets with the door handle.  “All right,” she says.  “I’ll save something for you.”  She closes the door behind her when she leaves.

As soon as the door clicks into place, Luna weeps.

No more sobs, no more hysterics – just silent tears trickling down her cheeks.

She wants to heal, but she doesn’t know how.

She wants the light and warmth that the world has to offer, but her body rejects them.

Please, escapes her lips, lighter than a breath, please, let me heal.


	4. Chapter 4

She comes downstairs later, creeps into the kitchen on tiptoe, looks around to see who is there.  The cottage is empty, only tiny, quiet noises echoing from some of the bedrooms – more people catching up on sleep? There is a single plate, though, lying on the table, loaded with a large breakfast – sausages, toast, eggs, and the like – that she doesn’t think she can eat.

“Hey.”

His voice surprises her, but she doesn’t let it show. “Hello, Dean.”

His hand touches her shoulder; he turns her to face him.  “Aren’t you going to eat?”

She shrugs.  “I don’t know.  I expect I will, at some point.”  She’s not going to let herself starve; that would be giving up, but if she doesn’t feel the slightest pang of hunger –

“You need to eat, Luna.”  His voice is serious; he refuses to take his eyes from hers.

“I know,” she says, but she makes no move toward the plate.

He sighs, reaches out for her, and takes her arm – the first non-malicious human contact she’s had in months, not counting Apparating with Dobby – and guides her to the table, pushing her gently until she sits down.  Even then, she stares blankly at the plate.  So much food – she can’t eat it all, she can’t –

And then Dean is guiding her, literally holding her hand and closing her suddenly-numb fingers around the piece of toast and lifting it to her mouth.  “Eat,” he says, a strange intensity in his eyes.  “Please.”

Her body obeys him, though it doesn’t want to, and she opens her mouth and bites into the piece of toast.  Even this – this most bland of breakfasts – has so much more taste than anything she’s eaten since December.  Butter melts in her mouth, trickling over her tongue, almost revitalizing her.  Satisfied, Dean lets go of her wrist and his eyes meet hers over the breakfast plate.

She swallows, hastily; she has just thought of something.

“Dean,” she says, almost hesitantly, “do you still have your coin? From the DA, two years ago?”

Confusion registers on his face, just for a moment, but then he masks it.  “Yes,” he says cautiously.  “I don’t know why I took it, really, but I do.”

She thinks she knows why, though, even if she doesn’t say it.  The same reason she checked it every day – every hour – last year, praying for it to warm up.  Because he felt alone in the world, and because he needed to remember that he had friends somewhere, that there was a resistance, that there was still hope in the world.

What she wouldn’t have given to have had her DA coin in the cellar – but that doesn’t matter now, nothing matters, because he has a coin, which means that she does, too.

Joy fills her – she can connect to them now, she has a way to contact Ginny, and Neville – _Neville_ – and she can hear if her friends are all right.  That will do more for her than any breakfast could.

She sets down her toast, meets his eyes, asks, “Where is it?  Did it escape the Snatchers?”

He reaches into his pocket.

When he drops the round, gold coin into her hand, her heart swells.  She devours it with her eyes – the date of their last DA meeting two years ago still fixed as the serial numbers, but that’s because he hasn’t had his coin updated.  She knows how to do it, was key to finding out how, and when she finally discovered the charm, her heart leapt, because she was important and useful and needed and –

She shakes off these thoughts.  She has to believe that she will see them again, has to believe that this is not the end.  “I’ll need a wand.”

Her heart pangs briefly as she thinks of the splinters of her wand, lying on the floor of that compartment of the Hogwarts Express, but she doesn’t show it.  “Have you still got one?”

He shakes his head, ruefully.  “The Snatchers Disarmed me first chance they got.”

She sighs, thinking once again on one of the first things Mr. Ollivander said to her – so much beauty, just destroyed, destroyed, without a care in the world – but that is why they are here, to stop it, and that’s what she’s going to do –

Without meaning to, she whispers under her breath, “Aspen and dragon heartstring, twelve and a quarter inches” – and she looks up and realizes that Dean has heard.

He gives her a look – a mixture of confusion and awe and curiosity – and asks, “How did you know that?” but he is interrupted by someone entering the room.

“ _Bonjour,_ Luna, Dean,” Fleur’s voice is gracious, but harried, and Luna feels a wave of regret and pity.  This woman never asked for this – it is not her war, not so much as it is Bill’s, and now she has a house of people to care for, people she hardly knows – but she is here all the same, and Luna thinks that that is the definition of true love.

“Hello, Mrs. Weasley,” she says, the words strange on her tongue.  There are so many Weasleys, and she is the first new Mrs. Weasley – but she can remember calling Molly Weasley that, when she and Ginny would play in the garden as young girls, so many lifetimes ago.

Fleur comes to her, kisses her on both cheeks, and does the same to Dean, who looks dazed.  Getting married does not dilute the power of the veela.  “Oh, no, please, call me Fleur.” Her French accent is strong, but still less pronounced than it was years ago, when she was at Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament.  Then, though, it seemed many noticed her only for her veela charm, paying little attention to her in the competition.  But Luna always respected her for her strength in her own right – and that respect is only increasing day by day.

“Thank you, Fleur,” she says, as much sincerity in her voice as possible.

Dean speaks quickly, uncomfortably, as though he does not want to be asking this beautiful woman for anything.  “Can we – may we borrow a wand?”

Fleur hesitates, but then nods, and hands over hers.  Dean passes it to Luna.

The coin is warm and golden in her hands, and as the wand tip touches it, it begins to glow, as though it is bursting with life and potential.  It heats up, practically molds to her hand as though it is pooling in her palm, a liquid rather than a solid, and the numbers and letters flow and blur across the surface as she murmurs softly the charm it took her weeks to find.  Then she reaches up, finding Fleur’s hand in the air, sets the wand in it, watches the magic take effect.

It’s been months since she’s done this; she’s almost forgotten how much she loves to watch a spell work.  The numbers flipping even faster across the coin, every letter changing from A to B and on through the whole alphabet, as though to be sure it has the capability, finally settling back into the words ONE GALLEON, and the warm glow she feels as everything settles back into place, the coin hardens back into a solid, and the letters and numbers are still, but she can still feel a warmth, as though the coin is humming in her hand, and she beams up at Dean.

He’s looking at her, mouth half open, like a Wrackspurt is buzzing around his head, so she flaps her hand near his ear to chase it away, and he starts back to himself.  But the awe doesn’t leave his eyes – she assumes that the beauty of the magic captured him just as much as it did her.

“Wow,” he whispers.  She feels almost as though he’s expecting her to say something, but she doesn’t because this doesn’t need words.

Besides, she wants to send a message.

They’ve always done it with their wands before, but just because she doesn’t have a wand doesn’t mean she can’t do magic. Mr. Ollivander explained it to her, and so many people forget that wandless magic does not stop just because witches and wizards can go to Hogwarts.  It’s just much more controlled, and requires a great deal of concentration.  But anyone with any magical gift at all can channel their magic through anything, and this part is simple enough that she trusts herself to do it without a wand.

And she hears Dean inhale just a tiny bit, knows he wants to say something, to ask her what she’s doing, so she uses his arm as a way to picture where he is, and then, without looking, reaches up to place a finger over his lips –

And then she touches the coin.

She touches each letter and focuses, intensely, on the letters, pictures them flipping, changing, saying what they need to say –

ITS LLANDDT

Hopefully they will understand.

And they do – they do – and the message comes quickly – MIS SINGYOU.

There are no initials, but she knows there is only one person who sent this message.

Neville.

Dean takes the coin, she shows him how to use it, and then he is off on a long conversation with Seamus Finnigan, about anything and everything, and Luna turns back to the plate.

Now that she’s heard from her friends – from _him_ – she suddenly feels just a bit hungrier.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean tracks her down a few hours later, holding two bags in his hands.  She’s sitting outside, watching the waves roll and crash onto the shore in the distance, feeling – for the moment – at peace.

“It’s beautiful here,” she says, hearing him come up to her before she turns.  He settles down beside her, hands her one of the bags.

There’s a sandwich inside.  “I thought you might want to eat out here, with me,” he explains.

She smiles at him, not focusing so much on him but the blurring outlines of the rocks behind him, and the beauty of their silhouettes, but she’s smiling, and that in itself is enough to make her hope grow.  “Thank you,” she says, though she still feels full and a little nauseous from breakfast, and sets the bag beside her.

He’s sitting beside her, legs folded under him, hands braced against the rock, and his profile looks like that of a hawk, as though he wants to lean forward and leap over the cliff and fly far, far away.  She wishes that she could, too.  Sometimes she feels like she could, if she could just find her wings, and she dreams of flying, but when she wakes up, she can never remember where her wings were.

“Tell me about the school,” says Dean abruptly.  “How was Hogwarts this year?”

“How much do you know?” she asks.

“Snape is headmaster,” he says, “saw that one in a newspaper.  And those two Carrows were new professors?”

“Death Eaters, Dean,” she says, “the Carrows are Death Eaters.  And they were – are – in charge of discipline.”

His eyes widen – his lips part as though he’s going to ask a question, so she answers it before he can speak –

“The Cruciatus Curse,” she says softly, and it looks as though nargles have seized his jaw and yanked it down as hard as possible, because she’s never seen a human’s mouth open that wide or that fast.  She continues, because the memory of the Carrows’ punishments is somehow so distant, after those months of the swallowing darkness, “they would use it on us, or have us use it on each other – but we wouldn’t, we from the DA – but one gets used to it after awhile.”

They could never get used to the pain, that’s not possible, but the fear – that tapers off after awhile, the effects numbed.  Luna understands numbness better than most, now.

“What did you do?” Dean asks, almost croaks, voice filled with awe.  It’s the voice almost everyone has used when talking to Ginny and Neville, at Hogwarts.  A few used it on her, but only a few.  She is only Loony Lovegood, after all.

“We couldn’t let them do that to Hogwarts,” she says, softly, fervently.  “They wanted to extinguish our spirit.  They wanted to put out our hope.  We couldn’t let them.”

He meets her eyes steadily.  She finishes.  “We fought.”

And she tells him – she feels alive again as she relates and relives late nights spent in the Room of Requirement, perfecting Disillusionment charms to disguise herself and the others when they went on late-night missions, the graffiti they scrawled on the walls, oh-so-difficult to erase, the Carrows’ fury –

But she skips over the punishments, somehow, because when she speaks about it all that seems to come out are the tales of glory and excitement, narrow escapes, and that is what she wants to remember, that is what she wants to imagine for the others who are still there.

And because she knows that the rest will be waiting for her as soon as she falls asleep again.

She lies awake that night, again outside, looking up at the stars and the moon, afraid – unable – to sleep.

She never used to have nightmares – could always make up her own happy end, even to scenes that had happened in real life.  And even her time in Hogwarts, this last year – was some of the happiest she knew.  The time of feeling loved, and needed, and wanted.

But the cellar –

The cellar was her dementor.

She was nothing to them, nothing.  She lay in darkness, day and night, and she would listen to the screaming upstairs, choke on the fear filling the air, and no one spoke to her, no one save Mr. Ollivander.  She felt no love from Ginny, or Neville, or her father, and it was terrifying to know that she was nothing –

They didn’t torture her because half the time they didn’t remember she was there in the first place – just letting her listen and curl in on herself and die a little more every day with the noise and the knowledge –

They would have killed her, if they’d had to, if Daddy hadn’t cooperated – or maybe even if he had.  She knew – knows – that they’d as soon kill her as torture her as leave her there to waste away slowly, if they hadn’t needed her – and she knew then that the second she was no longer needed, she would die.  Slowly, painfully, to give Bellatrix her game, to give her a reward.

And the whole time, being sucked in and blotted out by the darkness.

She needs the stars now, needs her stars – needs the moon, her strength.  She needs the strength that she hasn’t had.

Dean has been kind, she thinks, caring – but he’s not what she needs.  What she needs is Neville – shy, kind, strong, leader Neville – the one who understands what it is to feel alone.  The one who understands when she can’t eat, and can’t sleep, and would sit under the stars with her and listen to anything she has to say.

Dean is a companion, maybe even a friend, and he is someone who is here, who reminds her that she is alive – but he’s not the one she wants him to be.

And she lies there for the rest of the night, staring at the stars, holding off sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Time passes.  The waves crash on the shore, the stars come out every night, March fades into April, and the moon continues its cycle.

Not long after their arrival, it is time for Mr. Ollivander to leave. Luna hasn’t seen him so often in the last few days – he has been sleeping so much, resting, recovering. 

She still hasn’t, not really.

Every night, when she lies down to sleep in the bedroom she’s supposed to share with Hermione, she finds herself gasping for air, claustrophobic, hot – every night, she finds herself searching for the stars.

Every night she stands up, brings her pillow and blanket outside, and finds some peace under the stars.  It calms her to know that above her, the stars and the planets are still there, still moving, still living, far beyond the concerns of the mortals.  To know that no matter what Lord Voldemort might be able to do – he cannot end that.  To know that hope will always win out.

It’s comforting, as long as she’s awake.  But no matter how long she sings now, no matter how often she repeats the words to herself – _the world will still be there, it will still be there when you wake up_ – she doesn’t want to risk it.

Doesn’t want to miss her last minutes alive – if that is what these are.

Doesn’t want to lose any of the time she’s spent bringing herself back to life.

And every time she goes to sleep, she knows that the crushing, suffocating, endless darkness is waiting for her.

She sleeps when exhaustion forces her into it, but her sleep is shallow and close to the surface.  She supposes it’s a survival method, preparing to pull her out of the darkness before she can sink too far into it – and it’s justified, because no longer something to be awaited, something to trust because it will recharge her and give her new ideas and new strength, sleep is now something to be feared.

Instead, she tries to find dreams in wakefulness – tries to find the hope that she knows is there, is still drifting under the surface throughout everything, because it is the one thing that the sucking blackness cannot extinguish.

It’s just easier to find when she’s awake – and she’s not quite ready to plunge beneath the surface just yet.

But Mr. Ollivander – he was there for so much longer than she was.  He had too much time to become numb; had already sunk below the surface before she had even arrived there.  Sometimes she wonders if her function was to help him dive even deeper, to the depths where he could escape the pain.

If he could – can – do that, even if he needed her help to do it, then he is so much stronger than she, so much wiser.  But she knew that already.

But then, she wonders – if she wasn’t Loony Lovegood, if she wasn’t already insane – if they could have broken her irreparably.

She’s not, though – she knows that for sure.  Because if they had truly broken her, she wouldn’t be feeling such a flood of warmth right now, as she embraces Mr. Ollivander tightly, and he calls her his “inexpressible comfort,” wouldn’t be feeling the wave of strength and love that she does, and she knows that even if she is broken right now, it is not irreparable.

She knows that there is hope.


	7. Chapter 7

The proof of that hope, oddly enough, comes that very night.

Some might say it’s a strange coincidence, but Luna doesn’t believe in those. One of the few things in life whose existence she doubts.

So she doesn’t think it’s a coincidence when there’s a knock on the door, and when Bill goes over to it and hears Remus Lupin’s voice, and when he enters – her old Defense Against the Dark Arts professor; the werewolf; the man full of contradictions who is at the same time brave and afraid, strong and weak, joyful and yet deeply sad – when he enters the room and declares that his son has been born.

_Life._

New life, sprung in this strangely twisted world of death and despair and darkness, this world which has been somehow altered to only fit pain and misery, out of this world of death has come new life.

It is the flame in her heart, the flicker of hope she’s always kept, multiplied by a hundred – a thousand.  More, maybe.

It is more hope than she has felt in so long, and for the first time she feels like rejoicing.

She takes the wine that Bill hands her, drinks one sip in the toast to Teddy Remus Lupin, but immediately recoils.  She has slowly begun eating again, but not much; she is used to flavor but not flavor this intense, nothing this strong.  One sip is enough to send her spinning, just a little, spinning into a world just slightly removed from this one, just tilted a little on the axis.

It is a world that looks, on the outside, just the same, but there’s something different, something indefinable, about the way the sun rises, and the way the stars move across the sky, and the way the tides wash across the ocean, and the way . . .

She wonders what it is, and she takes another sip of the wine, tries to delve deeper into this new and mysterious and beautiful world to see what is so different.

And then she realizes, and it hits her harder than the taste of the wine.

_There is hope._

That is what is so different about this stranger and more beautiful world than the one they are in.  It’s not that anything is different about it, but it is viewed in a different way.

And, because of Harry, this world is within their grasp.

Because of this boy – this boy who holds so much hope, even if he doesn’t know it, even if he doesn’t realize – this boy who is in the same room as Luna right now, hugging Professor Lupin and beaming and looking dazed, this boy who has obviously received some news of his own – because of this boy, they have hope.

It may only be a faint ghost now – a hope for a world with hope, the hope for the world that Luna has seen – but it is there.  It is strong.  It is prominent.

It is Teddy Lupin, the new life brought forth.  Even if he will not be safe from the world forever, he gives Harry a reason to have hope.  He gives hope to the hope of humanity, the hope of the world.

Hope.

Such a small word, with such a vast world of possibility.

And, seeing this new world, hearing the news of new life, for the first time in days, Luna does not feel swallowed up by the darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning, she’s up before the others, as usual, after only a few hours of sleep.  The dark circles are prominent under her eyes, and Fleur has asked her about them a few times, but she can’t risk sleeping.

When Dean finds her she’s outside, sitting cross-legged in the garden, sketching absentmindedly in the dirt with her index finger.  She has almost finished her picture of Dobby as he looked when he burst into the cellar to rescue them, standing proud with the fierce glint of courage in his eyes, when she hears Dean clear his throat.

“Hello, Dean,” she says softly, rubbing out one of the elf’s eyes and redrawing it.  “Good morning.”

 “Hey, Luna.”

Looking up, she sees that his eyes are wide and fixed on her drawing.  Turning back to it, she corrects the tip of Dobby’s nose and then pulls back to get a better look at the effect.

“You know,” says Dean softly, “I draw, too.”

“I know,” she says.  “I’ve seen some of your signs for the Gryffindor Quidditch team.  They’re very good.”

“Thank you.”  He shifts a bit; she can hear his arms rustling against the grass.  When she looks up, he almost looks as though he’s blushing, but that can’t be right.  Being complimented is no reason to blush.  “Yours aren’t so bad, either.”

“Thank you.”  She smiles, and though it may not be quite her smile yet, not so open as she wishes it were, she fancies it’s a bit more genuine than before.  “It’s the least he deserves,” she adds, meaning Dobby.  “I just wish I had some paper, to immortalize it.  But then,” she pauses, thinks, continues, “then it wouldn’t be so important.  Part of the magic of the world is in the fleeting moments.”

It’s true; it makes the drawing more beautiful that it won’t last forever.  Even more important to enjoy it while she can.  Even as she senses that this time at Shell Cottage, beautiful and peaceful as it is, is only an interlude.  Moments cannot last forever – but then, they wouldn’t be half so wonderful if they could.

“Maybe,” says Dean, but he says it skeptically, uncertainly, as though he doesn’t quite believe her.  But not many do.

She finds a fallen leaf, broad, flat, and sweeps it across her drawing.  There is a slight pang of sadness as Dobby’s wide, courageous eyes are brushed away, but then, she still will always have them in her heart.

Once the dirt in front of her is flat once more, she looks up, studying Dean’s face, and pushes her finger gently into the dirt once more.

She always starts with the eyes.  She knows that some people do those last, but for her the eyes are the most important thing – the true window to the soul, the place where the truth lies.  With only one single eye, a picture can be complete, and the eyes always speak to her, guide her fingers for the rest.

So with broad strokes she draws them in – dark, bold, but calm.  Dean is a calm person, mostly, but courageous, too.  He is lithe, lean, cool – and her finger quickly captures his face, his longer-than-average neck, the strong collarbones.  Even the faint scar running down his cheek – a wound from the Snatchers, perhaps? She could ask, but knowing for sure would ruin the mystery of it.

He watches, silently, eyes growing wider as she continues, and when she’s finally drawn the last stroke, just a tiny bit of shading on the cheekbones, his face is slack and mouth hanging just slightly open.

“Wow,” he manages.

She loves to draw, to paint – to try to capture just a bit of the magic in the world around her, even if just for a fleeting instant.  She thinks that that’s what makes her good – because she knows she’s good at it – the fact that she loves it so much.

She leaves his picture there for a few moments, until they have both looked their fill, and then sweeps it out again with the leaf until the patch of dirt is empty once more.  Then she gestures at Dean, wordlessly asking him if he would like to try.  She wants to see what is in his head right now, and this way she’ll understand it even better than if he told her.

Hesitantly, he bends over the dirt, hands poised over the emptiness.  He hangs there for a moment, just waiting – waiting for what? Inspiration?  That force that guides his hand?

Finally, he sighs deeply and looks around.  “I need some sort of stick,” he explains.  “I can’t draw well without one.”

When he’s found a stick easy enough to manipulate, he bends over the dirt again.

He holds his breath as he draws, and the strokes don’t seem so effortless at first, as though he is trying to hard to force inspiration down his arm and into the dirt.  His skill, though, is obvious – and she watches as her own face takes shape, perfect in its features and details, but somehow, something is lacking –

He draws her eyes last, the opposite of how she does it, and when he has drawn them she can see that something is missing.

And Luna can see here, in this drawing, how she and Dean are different.

On the surface, perhaps, they are very similar – calm and artistic – but Luna is the farthest thing from surface, and she searches for the understanding beneath, the part of her that makes her _her_ , and on that level she and Dean simply do not click.

But she looks at him and says, “It’s beautiful,” because it is, it really is, just not in the same way as hers, and they sit there together and it is comforting to be there, comforting to be with him, because it is a reminder that she is not alone, that there are others there, that others are fighting with her, and that she does not have to face the blackness alone.

Just knowing she’s not alone gives her hope.  The Order of the Phoenix has the right idea with its name.  They will rise up again, love and joy and all that is beautiful in life will return, because no matter what, hope cannot truly die.

So she brushes the dirt clear again, leans closer, and begins to draw.  And when she’s finished, her phoenix spreads its wings wide, rising from the ashes, and if she looks hard enough, she thinks she could see it fly.


	9. Chapter 9

“From Mr. Ollivander.”

Luna meets Bill’s eyes over the package he is handing her, his eyes which are weary and old but still determined, the eyes which they all have these days.  The eyes of a soldier at war.

The package is long, thin, wrapped neatly in brown paper, with her name scrawled across the top.  By its weight and its size, she thinks she knows what it is, and if Mr. Ollivander is still thinking of her, though he has so much recovery still to do, so many more important things to worry about –

Her heart swells.  Somehow she’ll never get used to this feeling, having people who love her and do things for her without expecting anything in return.

She takes the package from Bill, manages a smile.  It isn’t so hard to smile anymore, these days.  She finds herself taking pleasure in the little things, the same way she used to.

She’s not completely healed, but she feels herself slowly, slowly coming back to life.

Sitting down at the dining room table, she slowly, carefully pulls the paper apart, frees the box from its confines.  Lifting the top of the box, she finds a wand inside – just as she’d been expecting – and a note.

Before she looks at the wand, she reads the note.  Just a few words, but touching ones.

_My dear Luna,_

_Although you weren’t here to be properly chosen, this wand seemed to fit you.  Use it well._

_Yours,_

_Mr. Ollivander_

On the back of the paper he’s written the wood and core, but she didn’t need the note.  She remembers all that he’s taught her, all about woods and cores and what they mean, and she mouths the words as she runs her fingers along the smooth, creamy wood – beech and phoenix feather, twelve inches, springy – and remembers what these woods and cores mean, and tears startlingly fill her eyes at how much Mr. Ollivander thinks of her –

And when she finally wraps her fingers around the wand and lifts it out of the box, she feels the same warmth, the same _rightness_ , that she felt with her old wand, that she feels with Ginny, Neville, her father –

Love.  Understanding.  The true connection of a wand and its master.

Mr. Ollivander is brilliant.

Brilliant, because he has been so weakened, so drained, by the many, many months of that cellar, by the torture, by the pain and misery and darkness – and yet he still has that knowledge, the knowledge which goes so much deeper than simply cutting wood and plucking unicorns – the knowledge of people and wands and magic and connections, the knowledge that so many people lack.

Brilliant.

She stands, pushes the chair aside, moving almost in a dream.  As she passes the bedroom where Harry, Ron, Hermione and Griphook have been camped for days, for weeks, planning something, she can see Hermione holding a small flask which unmistakably contains Polyjuice Potion – but she knows, as everyone does with those three, that what they do is so beyond understanding, that they are driven by a force even they don’t understand, so she passes without a word, knowing that their time here is drawing to a close, knowing that they will leave soon, knowing that soon, the chaos of the world will come again.

She doesn’t pause by the bedroom door; she walks past, walks outside, grasping her new wand, glorying in the warmth between her fingers, and quietly she feels Dean fall into step beside her, can feel his eyes widening with envy as he looks upon her and her good fortune.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the DA coin, touches the wand to the letters and feels a thrum of magic well up, as though the wand is excited to begin working with her, to begin that flawless partnership that always exists between wizard and wand –

But then she pauses, removes the wand, slips the coin back into her pocket.  There is nothing to say, really, nothing new, and for the moment, she will wait.

So she takes her wand, murmurs, “ _Wingardium Leviosa,_ ” and – swish and flick! – a large stone rises slowly into the air, lowers itself back gently down –

Beautiful.

Beautiful, beautiful – and as she continues to cast spells – Summoning things to her, only to Banish them once again, Conjuring flowers and sending flashes of sparks into the air – she watches the magic take effect, feels something bubbling up in her chest that she hasn’t felt in so long – and for the first time in months, she opens her mouth and laughs.


	10. Chapter 10

The next morning, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Griphook are gone.

It’s time.

No one talks about it – Fleur’s lips get a little tighter when she looks at the empty spaces at the table where the trio sat up until today, and Dean looks at the bedroom he’s supposed to move into with a mixture of reluctance and exasperation – but no one says the words out loud.

Their absence, though, is tangible.

And somewhere deep inside, Luna feels something stirring.

_The time is coming._

She doesn’t know where they’re going (although she suspects it has something to do with Gringotts; why else would Griphook, the goblin who brought her to her vault for the first time, be there?), doesn’t know if they’ll end up at Hogwarts at any point in the near future, but she finds herself putting her hand in her pocket every few minutes to check on the DA coin.  To see if it’s still there, so she’ll know when the others try to send a message.  She feels that it’ll be soon.

She’s right.

As it turns out, they only eat two meals with the empty places, and Dean never gets the chance to sleep in that bedroom.  The message comes that night.

HPR WHGHERE.

Her breath catches in her throat – it’s what they’ve all been waiting for.  The moment.  The revolution – and as she calls Dean, her heart echoes the words Sirius Black was said to be murmuring in Azkaban, years ago.  _He’s at Hogwarts._

WHA TDOWEDO appears on the coin, though she didn’t send it.  How many other former DA members still have their coins, and have they been adapted? And the message flashes on her coin again as it grows warm in her hand.

NOW WEFIGHT.

“Bill?” she calls.


	11. Chapter 11

Neville sends them quick instructions, spaced out over a few coin messages, explaining how to reach Hogwarts – the passageway through the Hog’s Head.  Bill promises to alert the Order, and then Luna grips Dean’s arm tightly, feels him turn on the spot, and closes her eyes as she’s sucked into the nothingness.

When they’ve finally landed, in the middle of the pub (in fact almost on top of a table), she has to stop and take a few deep breaths, struggle to push down the hysteria that always seems so much closer to the surface than it ever has been before.  Blackness, emptiness, nothing – it is too much, far too much like those months in the cellar, and she sinks her teeth into her cheek to hold back a scream.

Dean is watching her with concern, but she manages a reassuring smile and straightens up, holding her lungs steady, allowing herself only deep, slow breaths.  The light in here is too dim, too dingy – not light enough, not after Apparition – but it’s better than nothing, better than blackness.  She tries to open herself up, let the poison seep out of her pores, and soak up as much of the light as possible.

Aberforth Dumbledore, the bartender, has entered the room.  Luna sees him approaching out of the corner of her eye, behind Dean, and smiles at him as best she can.  “Hello, Mr. Dumbledore,” she greets him politely, watching Dean startle in surprise.  Even if Neville hadn’t told them through the coin that he is the brother of their former headmaster, Luna would have known him at once – those blue eyes are far, far too distinctive to belong to anyone else.

He looks at her for a moment with that intense blue gaze, and then nods a bit, as though she has passed some sort of test.  Then, without saying another word, he beckons them to follow him upstairs.

There is a painting on the wall, a painting of a little girl.  She has the same bright blue eyes as her two brothers, but hers are different somehow.  Instead of piercing, hers glow.  They roam over the little company, absorbing everything and nothing at the same time, and Luna has the feeling that this little girl understands everything about her, can feel – feel, not see – into the deepest corners of her mind and soul.  And she is, somehow, a kindred spirit.

For a moment, their eyes lock – Luna’s with Ariana’s.  Something passes between them.  And then Ariana walks forward – one step toward them – and the painting swings open, and the tunnel awaits them.


	12. Chapter 12

It’s dark, the tunnel.  Almost too dark, save for the soft lights of the torches on the walls.  Luna can’t help it – she reaches out for Dean’s arm and holds it tightly, needing proof that someone else is here with her, that someone else can keep her company in the darkness.  Someone who can keep her from being swallowed up.

She feels his muscles clench as her hand grasps it; his whole arm tense.  But it’s warm and human and _there_ , something solid to hold on to, something to keep her from drowning.  Forcing herself to breathe slowly, still, she wonders if it will ever end.  If she will ever be able to face the darkness on her own again.

But then the tunnel door swings open, she lets go of Dean’s arm and turns into the light, cries, “We got your message, Neville!” – and everything falls away.

Because the room is full to bursting with her friends.

Harry, Ron, Hermione – “Hello, you three,” and she cannot keep the smile from her face, “I thought you must be here” – Lavender Brown, Parvati and Padma Patil – and Luna feels a rush of affection for the older Ravenclaw, one of the last she saw on the train – Seamus Finnigan – and Dean leaves her side with a shout of joy – Michael Corner, Terry Boot, Anthony Goldstein –

And him, of course.  Neville.

She saves his gaze for last, letting her eyes wander over all the others in the room before locking onto his and holding them.

A piece of her falls back into place.

His eyes are warm, warm like she remembered them, and his cuts are a bit worse than before but not as bad as she’d feared, really, and his hair is overlong, and his robes are ripped, and his eyes, his expression, his whole _being_ , is welcoming her home.

And she feels the widest smile she’s worn in months spread across her face.

“Hi, everyone – oh, it’s so great to be back!” and it is, it really is, just being back here with her friends, no matter what will happen next, is so healing, so wonderful, that she feels as though her whole heart has lit up.

“Luna, what are you _doing_ here?” Harry is obviously not as happy as she is, although she’s not sure why that would be.  She’d think he’d be happy to see her again, especially as she’s about to help him lead a revolution at Hogwarts.  But all that registers on his face is confusion and despair.  “How did you – ?”

“I sent for her,” Neville interrupts, and oh, the sound of his voice fills her heart like nothing else could in this moment.  “I promised her and Ginny that if you turned up I’d let them know.”  A deal they made at the very beginning, once they realized just how serious things were.  That they would all let each other know, if for some reason they couldn’t be there.  Of course, at that time it was still just an _if._   “We all thought that if you came back it would mean revolution.  That we were going to overthrow Snape and the Carrows.”

“Of course that’s what it means,” but even as she says it, she’s recognizing some sense of unease, a feeling that something in the plan has changed that she didn’t know about, “isn’t it, Harry?  We’re going to fight them out of Hogwarts?”

“Listen, I’m sorry,” and the warm glow in her heart dims just a bit at the desperation in Harry’s voice, “but that’s not what we came back for.  There’s something we’ve got to do” – but isn’t there always? – “and then” –

“You’re going to leave us in this mess?” Michael looks seconds away from jumping up from where he’s sitting, and there are similar expressions on every face.

“No!” For the first time, Ron speaks.  “What we’re doing will benefit everyone in the end,” – but how would fighting off the Death Eaters not benefit everyone? – “it’s about trying to get rid of You-Know-Who” –

“Then let us help!” And the fight is back in Neville’s voice, the glowing embers in his eyes have stirred into flames, and Luna feels them igniting her own heart.  “We want to be a part of it!”

And then the door behind her opens and more people push through, and in the very front is Ginny.  At first she only has eyes for Harry, for the Boy-She-Loves, but then her eyes fall on Luna and the two of them rush forward at the same time.

 _Ginny._   They fall into each other’s arms, and hugging her – her best friend, her sister – the flames in Luna’s heart grow higher.  She feels the presence, somehow, of Hestia, the Greek goddess of the hearth.  Her hearth, her home, is here.


	13. Chapter 13

“Aberforth’s getting a bit annoyed.”  At the sound of Fred’s voice, Luna and Ginny break apart, and Ginny begins to walk around the room and distribute hugs to everyone.  “He wants a kip, and his bar’s turned into a railway station.”

Before anyone can say anything, Harry’s chin practically hits his collarbone, and in response to more noise behind her, Luna turns to see Cho Chang, the girl Harry used to have a crush on two years ago – and she thinks they were together, too, briefly, although she can’t quite remember anymore – walk through the passageway after Lee Jordan.  “I got the message,” she says a bit unnecessarily, holding up her coin as if for Harry’s inspection.  Luna thinks she remembers Ginny saying something on the train before the Death Eaters came about teaching Fred and George how to modify their coins and those of other DA members.  This must be how Cho knows.

“So what’s the plan, Harry?” asks George, pulling Luna’s attention back to him and his brother.

“There isn’t one,” and Harry now seems to be sinking deeper into a hole – that’s the expression he has on his face, anyway – and Luna presses her hand to her heart again, trying to keep the warmth inside, trying not to remember how it feels to be sucked into blackness.

“Just going to make it up as we go along, are we?” Fred’s face breaks into his typical trickster grin.  “My favorite kind.”

Harry is now clawing frantically at the walls of his hole, to keep his head above ground.  “You’ve got to stop this!” and he turns desperately to Neville.  “What did you call them all back for – this is insane – “

“We’re fighting, aren’t we?’ Dean pulls the Galleon from his pocket.  “The message said Harry was back, and we were going to fight.”  He pauses. “I’ll have to get a wand, though.”

“You haven’t got a _wand_?” Seamus looks incredulous, and this whole time he has not moved an inch from Dean’s side.

“Why can’t they help?” And, though it’s not loud, Ron’s voice breaks through the din immediately.

He, Harry, and Hermione immediately lower their voices and begin a whispered conversation.  Luna turns her gaze, once again, to Neville.

As his eyes meet hers, she’s pinned.  She can’t move her feet, can’t move anything, really – she is trapped exactly where she is, her eyes drinking in the sight of him, the feeling of his eyes on hers.  And he moves his foot – moves one step toward her, and she reciprocates the gesture, and they are magnets drawn toward each other, moving slowly but surely to the inevitable collision –

“Okay,” says Harry, and his voice breaks the spell, and everyone snaps their eyes to him, and at first Luna feels a pang, but then she realizes – _this is it_ – and she turns to Harry with the rest, waiting, waiting . . .

“There’s something we need to find.”  Harry’s voice is loud, somehow confident.  “Something – something that’ll help us overthrow You-Know-Who.  It’s here at Hogwarts, but we don’t know where.  It might have belonged to Ravenclaw.  Has anyone heard of an object like that?  Has anyone ever come across something with her eagle on it, for instance?”

Luna listens as the other Ravenclaws begin to debate.  She hears them murmuring amongst themselves – not only about what the object might be, but also about how illogical it is to look for something that he doesn’t even know what it is –

That’s the problem with many Ravenclaws, she muses, moving over to where Ginny is sitting and settling herself on the arm of the chair.  They’re _too_ logical sometimes.  So instead of debating, she simply opens her mind up – opens it to all the possibilities, all the chasms of the universe, and she can only find one answer – _the diadem_.

So she suggests it.

And of course, most of the other Ravenclaws look at her like she’s an idiot, the way they usually do – she’s heard them wondering how she got into their house, the house of the clever, rational people, but she thinks that the reason she was Sorted into Ravenclaw is that all of them are _too_ rational.  Sometimes, they need someone who can believe in the impossible, since they can’t.

“When was it lost?” asks Harry, pulling her out of her thoughts.

“Centuries ago, they say,” and Cho recounts the story, and Luna watches Harry’s head droop with disappointment.

“Sorry, but what is a diadem?” Ron breaks in.

Terry Boot gives the simple explanation.  “It’s a kind of crown.  Ravenclaw’s was supposed to have magical properties, enhance the wisdom of the wearer.”

“Yes,” adds Luna.  “Daddy’s Wrackspurt siphons” – and she wants to explain, but Harry cuts her off before she can finish.

 “And none of you have ever seen anything that looks like it?”

And here comes logic again, thinks Luna, _logic_ , trying to ruin their only chance.  Because she’s looked into the universe, and somehow, she knows that the diadem is the answer – but logic may well ruin it.

Cho speaks again.  “If you’d like to see what the diadem’s supposed to look like, I could take you up to our common room and show you” – but Luna can’t listen to the rest of what she’s saying because there’s a burst of heat – of pure fury – beside her.

She turns around, meets Ginny’s eyes, and the brown pair has erupted into burning flames.  Knowing Cho’s and Harry’s history, Luna can’t blame her.  And she loses track of the conversation for awhile, until suddenly Ginny’s tensed up beside her, and speaking.  “No,” she says firmly, and, somewhat surprised, Luna notices that Cho is already standing.  “Luna will take Harry, won’t you, Luna?”

Luna turns to Ginny, offers a reassuring smile.  “Ooh, yes,” she says, hopefully calming Ginny down so that she doesn’t cause the room to combust with her eyes, “I’d like to.”  Because she really would like to.

“How do we get out?” asks Harry, and Neville shows him the way, Harry beckons Luna with him.  As she leaves with Harry, she turns around and meets Neville’s eyes one last time, and something unspoken passes between them.

And her smile grows wider.


	14. Chapter 14

She and Harry make their way up the stairs, and just before Harry can reach out to touch the wall, he pulls something out from under his clothes.  Soft, silvery, seeming to transcend the boundaries of the world – _the Invisibility Cloak._   And as he tosses one end of it over her head, she pulls it snugly against herself, and a new possibility suddenly floats into her mind.

What if . . . ?

But there’s no time for that now, if all goes well she will have plenty of time to ponder it later, because now Harry has pressed his hand to the wall and it’s receding, and automatically Luna holds her breath, her heart and blood now racing in that familiar way they always did during night escapades before December, before the cellar, and she looks around, searching for someone, Filch, a prefect, a Carrow . . .

But there’s no one, and Harry’s arms are around her now, pulling her aside into the shadows, where no one will run into them, where they will disturb no one, and he pulls out a piece of paper from a pouch, and whispers to it, and she watches as a map blooms on the page.

She doesn’t have much time to look at it, because Harry soon finds what he’s looking for.  “We’re up on the fifth floor,” he murmurs in her ear.  “Come on.”

She holds onto his arm so that they can keep close together.  By listening to his breathing and feeling the rhythm of his steps, she’s able to synchronize her own pace with his, so that they don’t bump into each other with every step.  She wonders how often Ron and Hermione have been under this Cloak with him, how very in step the three of them must be after so many years.

And they continue silently on through the darkness.

The darkness.

They’re so quiet that she can hear Harry’s heart – it’s pounding almost as hard as hers is.  She wonders what he’s really been doing over the last few months – if his reaction has anything to do with the darkness the way hers is, or if he’s simply totally focused on the task at hand.  She tries to slow her breathing, but she can still feel her heart slamming against her ribs, trying to jump into her throat.  With more effort than ever before, she pushes it back down.  She cannot let her fear get them caught.

“This way,” she chokes out, tugging on his arm, as she notices the staircase that leads to her common room.  Here, on familiar ground, her blood cools down a bit, the flow not so panicky-fast the way it was before.  It’s still an effort, though, and she tries not to squeeze Harry’s arm too hard.  But he probably doesn’t even notice, so absorbed in his own thoughts, his own struggle.

It’s a bit lighter when they reach the common room, not as dark as before, and she feels her hand unclench just a bit in relief.  Her other seems to float in nothingness as she knocks on the door, and she prepares to let herself go, prepares to drift into the consciousness she always finds when there’s a question to be answered.

“Which came first, the phoenix or the flame?”

She breathes out once, deeply, but before she loses herself, she asks Harry what he thinks.

The confusion on his face tells her that she shouldn’t expect an answer from him, and she answers his question – “Isn’t there just a password?” – with little attention.  She lets go of all focus, all worry, all fear, and lets her mind relax into the consciousness of the universe..

 _The phoenix or the flame_. . . In her mind – or maybe it’s not her mind at all – she can see it, can see the beautiful red-and-gold bird rising from the fire, growing, living its life, every stage of beauty, and then sinking gracefully into flames, before the flames burn to embers and the bird rises again . . . it resolves itself into a circle into her mind, a circle of red and gold – but a circle has no beginning . . .

“Well reasoned,” says the door, and she can feel Harry’s sigh of relief, but in her mind it’s not reason at all.  It is the truth, and the truth is not reason, because it simply _is._ Reason has very little part in life, in the way things _are_ , and that is the problem that most Ravenclaws have.

As Harry admires the statue, Luna looks around the common room.  It’s just as beautiful as it was her last day before Hogwarts.  She especially loves the high arched windows – living in a warm, cozy common room like the Gryffindors do would have no appeal to her.  Here, she feels close to the world – and at a time like now, that is greatly appreciated.

Harry’s side of the Cloak drops suddenly, trailing on the floor, and Harry is gone.  He’s stepped up onto the plinth beside the statue, and, tracing the words with his fingers, he whispers, “ _Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure._ ”

And then – only then – Luna notices something she didn’t see before, something that makes her heart beat ten times faster than before, something that makes her raise her wand in both fear and defiance: A dark figure steps out from the shadows – the figure of Alecto Carrow – and her grating, colloquial voice speaks.

“Which makes you pretty skint, witless.”

And Luna points her wand, but she knows she’s too late as the finger descends onto the dark tattoo on the arm, and the air suddenly feels charged with heat.


	15. Chapter 15

Her wordless Stunning spell hits Alecto a second later, and the Death Eater falls forward.  Luna has used many other defensive spells this year, but so far, she hasn’t Stunned anyone, and she wasn’t expecting the loud _bang_ to emit from her wand.  She hears noises upstairs, and knows that the students will be down any minute to see what’s happening.

“Luna, where are you?” asks Harry desperately.  “I need to get under the Cloak!”

She lifts his side of the Cloak, the material that’s been hanging limply beside her, just enough so that the sides of her feet are visible, and as he slips under her outstretched arm she drops the material over his head – just in time.

The students flood in, dozens of them.  Their expressions register curiosity, understanding, shock – and then relief.  Some of them look so happy that Luna feels her heart warm up once again, joyful that she could cause this feeling, even if they will never know who it was.

“I think she might be dead!” cries Marcus, one of the pitifully-small crop of first years.  Luna can see chafe marks on his wrists, which look like they were made by manacles – could he have a special vendetta against Alecto because of this? Did she chain him up in the dungeons, the way she always threatened to?

“Oh, look, they’re pleased!” Luna whispers to Harry, wanting to share her delight in this moment, even though she’s not sure he’ll understand it.

“Yeah,” he says distractedly, “great . . .”

And then there’s another knock on the door, and all the warmth drains out of the room.

“Where do Vanished objects go?” asks the door pleasantly, and Luna’s mind starts to drift out of focus to answer the question, but then she realizes that she needs to concentrate on the situation at hand.

“I dunno, do I? Shut it!”  Amycus is being very unnecessarily rude to the door – it’s probably because he feels insecure at being unable to answer its question.  “Alecto – Alecto! Are you there? Have you got him? Open the door!”

Nothing happens, because obviously that’s not the answer to the question and Alecto is unconscious and unable to answer him.  Which only seems to enrage him further – and he slams his fists into the door, as though trying to break it down.  Which won’t do a thing.  Luna doesn’t understand why he’s doing it – all he’ll gain are bruises on his knuckles.

“ALECTO!” Amycus is shrieking now, and any of the Ravenclaws who weren’t already awake will surely be stirring now.  Luna wonders vaguely if Filch isn’t hurrying on his way, roused by the shouting, ready to punish a student for being out of bounds.  “If he comes, and we haven’t got Potter – d’you want to go the same way as the Malfoys?” Amycus’ tone is colored with desperation.  “ANSWER ME!”

Some students flee, but many stay, paralyzed at the drama.  The poor students must be so confused – Harry and Luna are invisible, so what must this look like to them?

And then a new voice breaks in, and Luna’s shoulders slump with relief.

“May I ask what you are doing, Professor Carrow?”

Professor McGonagall’s voice is crisp; it betrays nothing out of the ordinary, no pain or fear – nothing but contempt.  A swell of respect and love and appreciation wells up inside Luna.

“Trying – to get through – this damned – door!” Amycus’ voice is choked with rage and worry, and every word sounds forced.  “Go and get Flitwick.  Get him to open it. Now!”

How dare he – how _dare_ he speak to Professor McGonagall like that? Luna truly doesn’t understand how she doesn’t command respect from him.  Doesn’t understand how he can so completely ignore all that she is.

“But isn’t your sister in there?”  Professor McGonagall’s voice is filled with disdain.  “Didn’t Professor Flitwick let her in earlier this evening, at your _urgent_ ” – she stresses the word – “request?  Perhaps she could open the door for you – then you needn’t wake up half the castle.”

“She isn’t answering, you old besom!” Amycus has crossed a line here – a line that he’s already crossed, ten times over, but he doesn’t even seem to realize how _far_ he’s gone this time.  “ _You_ open it! Garn! Do it! Now!”

“Certainly, if you wish it.”  Professor McGonagall taps lightly on the door, and the voice repeats its question.

“Where do Vanished objects go?”

Professor McGonagall is incredibly quick with the answer – although, as she is a Transfiguration teacher, it stands to reason.  “Into nonbeing, which is to say, everything,” she says calmly.  Nonbeing – it is exactly where Luna’s thoughts go, when she searches for an answer.

“Nicely phrased,” and the door opens.

Amycus storms into the room, and the Ravenclaws scatter – dashing up the stairs to the dormitories, hoping, perhaps, that he won’t see them, won’t know they were there – but who else can he suspect? – and Luna feels a sick, sinking feeling of dread in her stomach, because she – _she_ – has caused this to happen, and now the other Ravenclaws will be blamed for it.

“What’ve they done, the little whelps?” and he launches into a tirade against the Ravenclaws, the poor children, who simply had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Luna’s about to pull the Invisibility Cloak off of herself, to give herself up and take the blame from him, when Professor McGonagall speaks up.

“She’s only Stunned; she’ll be quite all right,” she says, sounding disappointed.

“No she bludgering well won’t!” roars Amycus, and his face has never resembled that of a dog so much as it does at this moment.  “Not after the Dark Lord gets hold of her!  She’s gone and sent for him, I felt me Mark burn, and he thinks we’ve got Potter!”

This means that there’s only one reason the Dark Eaters would be summoning their master.  No chance for false alarms or mix-ups.  Luna’s heart sinks deeper, but there’s no reaction from Harry beside her.  He acts . . . unsurprised.  As though he already knows.

Professor McGonagall’s eyebrows go up.  “’Got Potter?’ What do you mean, ‘got Potter’?”

“He told us Potter might try to get inside Ravenclaw Tower, and to send for him if we caught him!”

Harry said earlier that this object _might have belonged to Ravenclaw_ . . . perhaps the one good thing about Alecto being stationed here is that now they know that he’s right.  And she’s even more positive than before about what it must be . . . now, if they just knew where it was . . .

“Why would Harry Potter try to get into Ravenclaw Tower?” Professor McGonagall sounds . . . affronted.  “Potter belongs in my house!”  Pride and affection ring clearly in her words, and Luna hears Harry’s tiny intake of breath next to her.  She can’t hold back a smile.

“We was told he might come in here – dunno why, do I?”  Amycus snorts, as though he is proud of his ignorance.  As a Ravenclaw, this irks Luna.

Professor McGonagall rakes her eyes over the room, the same way she did at their very first lesson of the year, and if she weren’t invisible, Luna could swear that the professor makes eye contact with her – even smiles a little.  But then, Amycus begins to speak again.

“We can pass it off on the kids,” he begins, and as he continues to speak, Luna actually has her hand on the edge of the Cloak – she cannot let him do this, _cannot_ let him blame innocent children on a spell that she cast.

But Professor McGonagall sees, she must – because just as an edge of Luna’s finger comes into view, McGonagall’s eyes flicker over to it and all the color drains from her face.

Before Luna can do anything else, Professor McGonagall has spoken . . . “You will not pass off your many ineptitudes on the students of Hogwarts. I will not permit it.”

Those words are a signal – a signal to Luna.  _Remove your hand, hide yourself, let me talk._   Pulling her hand back inside the Cloak, Luna wonders if McGonagall knows who is here, under the Cloak with Harry.  Hermione was almost a Ravenclaw – she probably could have gotten them into Ravenclaw Tower.

But then her musing is interrupted.

Because Amycus has just spit in Professor McGonagall’s face.

The fire explodes in Luna’s heart again, but this time it’s not a warm, happy glow – it’s a blaze of anger and indignation, and this time she’d have no restraint ripping the Cloak off –

If Harry hadn’t already done it.

She’s sure she can hear his heartbeat, it’s so loud and fast and angry.  Luna holds tight to the Cloak as Harry breathes, “You shouldn’t have done that,” points his wand at Amycus, and –

No.

No.

He can’t have – Harry Potter did not just use the Cruciatus Curse.

For once in her life, Luna Lovegood is denying something that’s obviously true, because she simply cannot believe that Harry Potter – the Chosen One, The Boy Who Lived, the one who at all costs is supposed to fight against the forces of evil – has just blasted Amycus Carrow off his feet and sent him smashing into a bookcase, writhing and screaming in pain.

_It can’t be._

But it is.

Professor McGonagall looks shocked – now she’s talking to Harry, telling him he didn’t need to defend her, and then Harry says, “Professor McGonagall, Voldemort’s on the way.”

Voldemort.


	16. Chapter 16

“Oh – are we allowed to say his name now?” No one else is here, and Harry’s already revealed himself – Luna pulls the Cloak off, and Professor McGonagall is obviously shocked – she sits down hard, as though dazed.  Luna drapes the Cloak over her arm, continues listening.

“I don’t think it makes any difference what we call him – he already knows where I am,” says Harry wearily, and his hand makes a sudden twitching motion, as though on its way up to touch his head, but falls back to his side halfway through.  Luna wants to try to figure out what he was doing, but it’s more important now to focus on the matter at hand . . .

“You must flee,” and Luna recognizes the fiercely protective Minerva McGonagall in those three words, the glint in her eye that says she would do anything to keep her students safe.  “Now, Potter, as quickly as you can!”

“I can’t.”  His voice is firm, as is to be expected.  Anyone who knows Harry Potter would never expect him to flee from such a confrontation.  He continues, elaborates, “There’s something I need to do, Professor.  Do you know where the diadem of Ravenclaw is?”

Professor McGonagall appears completely nonplussed.  “The diadem of Ravenclaw? – of course not, hasn’t it been lost for centuries?” It sounds more like she’s thinking more than speaking, because suddenly her focus snaps back into place.  “Potter, it was madness, utter madness, for you to enter this castle” –

Harry doesn’t stand down, and Luna doesn’t think even Professor McGonagall is surprised. “I had to.”  He pauses, looks desperate.  “Professor, there’s something hidden here that I’m supposed to find – and it _could_ be the diadem; if I could just speak to Professor Flitwick” –

Professor McGonagall opens her mouth, but then there’s a noise beside them – Amycus is stirring.  Luna raises her wand, though no spell has occurred to her, but Professor McGonagall is faster.

“ _Imperio._ ”

Luna watches Amycus’ eyes cloud over, watches him walk to his sister, swaying drunkenly – she wonders if that’s an effect of the curse, or of Harry’s a few minutes ago – he takes her wand and hands the two wands in his hand to the teacher.  Professor McGonagall’s hands tighten around them, knuckles whitening as though she would like to snap them, but she remains focused on the task at hand – Amycus lowers himself to the floor beside Alecto, and Professor McGonagall binds them both tightly.

She turns away from them both, acting as though she doesn’t care, but her left hand twitches just slightly around the two wands, as though very little is holding her back from destroying them right now, along with their owners.  “Potter,” she says, fixing her eyes on Harry, “if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named does indeed know that you are here” –

Suddenly, Harry sways alarmingly – his eyes squeeze shut; his mouth drops open and he gasps in an almost agonized manner – classic symptoms of an attack by nargles, but Luna hasn’t seen or sensed any in this room, which is curious.  She looks at him worriedly as he nearly falls into her, his hands latching onto her arm, practically wrapping around her neck so that he can hold himself up.  He is far lighter than he should be, and she’s worried, but she doesn’t have much time to think about that.  “Harry?” she murmurs, softly so as not to alert the Ravenclaws.  He does not seem to hear her.

“Potter!” says Professor McGonagall, her voice firm but also somehow gentle.  “Potter, are you all right?” and Harry lets out a short gasp, blinks hard, and then his eyes widen again in recognition.

“Time’s running out,” and the blood starts pumping through Luna with renewed vigor, “Voldemort’s getting nearer.  Professor, I’m acting on Dumbledore’s orders, I must find what he wanted me to find!” _The diadem –_ how much did Dumbledore know about it, anyway?  “But we’ve got to get the students out while I’m searching the castle” – Luna looks up at the now-silent dormitories, and feels a pang – “it’s me Voldemort wants, but he won’t care about killing a few more or less” – because the children of Hogwarts are “more or less,” exactly the way Amycus saw it, the way the Death Eaters have been seeing it for the whole year of school – “not now” – but then Harry falls silent, cut off abruptly, as though he almost said something he’s not supposed to say.

“You’re acting on Dumbledore’s orders?” McGonagall stands even straighter, her eyes – no, her whole face – lighting up.  She suddenly looks years younger, as though she has just shed all the premature age she has gained in the last year alone, and Luna can see her still-untainted loyalty to the man who the entire Wizarding world respected.  Her whole mind – her whole manner – has changed, and determination blazes from her every pore.  “We shall secure the school against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named while you search for this” – she hesitates, as she knows less than Luna – “this object.”

“Is that possible?”

“I think so; we teachers are rather good at magic, you know” – and Luna almost smiles at Professor McGonagall’s words, at the typical pride and dignity filling her voice.  “I am sure we will be able to hold him off for awhile if we all put our best efforts into it.”

Luna looks away for a moment; Harry’s and Professor McGonagall’s voices drift off into the background as she lets her eyes roam to the ground until they find the two Carrows.  There is something oddly beautiful about the way they are bound together, something about the shimmering of the iridescent rope.  The beauty is in the contrast, she thinks – in the difference between this pure, shining rope and their bodies.  Their features are not calm even in unconsciousness, twisted and ugly with the evil that has taken them over, consumed them.

Suddenly, their bodies are swathed in a silver net, which wraps itself tightly around them and lifts them to the ceiling.  Luna watches, hypnotized by the motion.  It reminds her of the graceful way Solarian Swampgliders fly, rising and falling gently with the winds, with the sun flashing off of their golden feathers.  But these are silver, like the moon . . . for a moment, she wonders if there are Lunarian Swampgliders, but then she realizes that if there are, this image will corrupt her mind whenever she sees them.

Now Professor McGonagall is moving; so is Harry – he throws the Cloak back over her head and she feels herself disappear, along with him, as they move quickly toward the door.

Luna has to run in order to remain under the Cloak with Harry; he has ahold of her wrist so that she won’t fall behind, but still, she feels the Cloak lapping at her ankles with every step.  But if this Cloak is what she thinks it is . . . well, if it is, then she has to trust it.

Then, a few staircases later, Luna hears footsteps behind them.  And accompanying those footsteps is the familiar prickling of the hair on the back of her neck standing on end, the feeling she got used to during her months with the DA.  The feeling of someone – someone malicious – coming up behind her.

“Who’s there?” rings out Professor McGonagall’s voice, clear and strong, and Luna pauses, holds her breath, turns around – and then hears the familiar voice.

“It is I.”

And Severus Snape melts out of the shadows.


	17. Chapter 17

Harry’s hand is still around Luna’s wrist, and now it tightens, squeezing hard.  Harry is practically emanating heat, and within his fingers she can feel his blood pumping hard, so hard it almost makes her dizzy.  She stretches her fingers around to clutch his, to try to absorb some of this burden for him, maybe, since he holds so much of it already –

“Where are the Carrows?” asks Professor Snape, and his fingers tighten around his wand.  Somehow, though – not as much as they should.  Almost . . . almost reluctantly.

“Wherever you told them to be, I expect, Severus,” replies Professor McGonagall, disdain clear in her voice.  Her wand, too, is at the ready, and unlike him, there is no hesitation in her fingers.  They may have been friends once, Luna always suspected they were, but Professor McGonagall’s loyalty to her school and to her students and to the Order of the Phoenix has never wavered.

Snape draws closer to them, his eyes pausing to rest directly to Luna’s right, where Harry is.  The air thrums with heat – Luna wonders if the animosity between the two men has finally become tangible.  Beside her, Harry raises his wand.

“I was under the impression that Alecto had apprehended an intruder.”  Snape’s voice is businesslike now, no open hatred or fury fills his tone, but it’s there beneath the surface, clearly seething.

Professor McGonagall replies, says something, but Luna isn’t listening anymore.  She’s watching their hands, both Snape’s and McGonagall’s, as they inch their wands up into perfect dueling position.  Snape’s left arm flexes slightly, but his right is completely steady.  Any reluctance that might have been there is gone.  He is committed to this.  A duel is going to happen.

They are locked in a motionless dance, waiting for one of them to move first, both wands  held perfectly still in the air, hands poised in position –

And then Minerva McGonagall’s wand slashes through the air, Snape’s flicks upward, and the dance begins.

Their movements are so graceful; entrancing – their hands are like birds, soaring through the air, changing direction effortlessly, swooping and diving and rising –

And then suddenly, out of nowhere, there are flames, bright ones, lighting up the corridor.  _Like the phoenix circle,_ thinks Luna, and her eyes are wide, transfixed, on the flames –

And then she’s jerked roughly to the side; half on the ground, she pulls the Cloak more securely around her and looks to her right.  Harry has dragged her out of the way, and now he’s edging in front of her, so that he’s between her and the duel.  She can look over his shoulder; trusting him to keep her safe, she continues watching the duel, enchanted.

“Minerva!” cries another voice, and Luna turns – it’s her own Head of House, Professor Flitwick.  Her heart warms as she catches sight of him, and though she knows he can’t see her back, she tries to catch his eye anyway.  She wonders if he can feel it, even though she’s invisible.  Can you make eye contact with someone when one person is invisible?

And then the Cloak flaps in some breeze – she flips her head around and watches in fascination as Professor Flitwick sends a suit of armor flying towards them, and Harry pulls her out of the way just in time.

She hits the floor sideways, slides a ways on the ground, and the Cloak flies halfway off of her.  She can see her exposed legs splayed out in the hall, but Harry is still holding onto her wrist, and she anchors herself with him, tugging at the Cloak.  And then she hears Professor McGonagall’s voice.

“Coward!” she cries.  “COWARD!”

“What’s happened?” bursts from Luna’s mouth – “what’s happened?”

Harry’s fingers tighten around her wrist; he gets to his feet and pulls her up as well.  The Invisibility Cloak is still half-off and dragging on the floor behind them, but they run, far past caring about that.  They just need to see what has happened – and what will happen next.


	18. Chapter 18

“He jumped.”

“You mean he’s _dead?_ ” gasps Harry – but that’s wrong, and Luna knows it as soon as he’s said it.  Severus Snape would never throw himself out a window – unless he had a backup plan.

And sure enough, as she strains her eyes out the window, she can see a large, dark shape soaring across the grounds.

The babble of conversation around her blurs into a background murmur; she focuses only on that one black shape, following it with her eyes until it disappears.  Even then, she is glued to the window, watching the place where it vanished – as though perhaps it will come back . . .

Something about this feels wrong to her, though she can’t explain it in words.

The name of her House jars her, and she turns around.  Professor McGonagall is just speaking.  “ – in the Great Hall, Filius!” she says, and then she gestures at Luna and at Harry to follow her.

And then Professor Slughorn speaks.

Luna looks him over thoughtfully.  She doesn’t know Professor Slughorn very well.  He never paid her much attention in class – he wasn’t rude, exactly; there were just more important people to see, more important conversations to have.  She wonders how much he is involved in this battle.  She wonders how much the outcome matters to him.  From what he is saying now, it doesn’t seem to be much.  Because, if he doesn’t plan to stand against the Death Eaters, what does he plan to do?  With Lord Voldemort, there is no other option.

“I shall expect you and the Slytherins in the Great Hall in twenty minutes also,” interrupts Professor McGonagall, and her voice is as cool and cutting as the sharpest blade.  If you wish to leave with your students” – she pauses, her voice heavy with disdain, because to Minerva McGonagall cowardice is the most shameful choice – “we shall not stop you.  But if any of you attempt to sabotage our resistance or take up arms against us within this castle, then, Horace,” and her voice grows heavier, even more serious, “we duel to kill.”

There is a ringing silence – at least in their small area – and then Slughorn’s voice breaks it.  “Minerva!” he gasps, but she shakes her head.

“The time has come for Slytherin House to decide upon its loyalties.”  She begins to sweep out of the room, and pauses for a moment, turns her head slowly and regally back to him.  “Go and wake your students, Horace.”  And then she is gone.


	19. Chapter 19

Luna runs alongside Harry, struggling to keep up.  Her muscles have deteriorated since December, and she doesn’t know how long it will take for them to build up their strength again.  Panting and gasping, she manages to fall into step beside him just before they catch up with Professor McGonagall.  She has her wand out, a determined look on her face, which is nevertheless paler than usual.  She takes a deep breath.

“ _Piertotum_ – but then she stops short, and the determined expression slides off of her face, to be replaced with impatience.  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Filch, not _now!_ ”

“Students out of bed!” cries Filch, limping around a corner.  Mrs. Norris is nowhere to be seen, and Luna wonders where she is.  She likes the cat – sometimes she feels that Mrs. Norris is trying to communicate with her with her eyes, and she wishes that she were just a bit more intelligent so that she could understand.  “Students in the corridors!”

“They’re supposed to be, you blithering idiot!” cries Professor McGonagall, and somewhere within her words there is a rush of relief, almost satisfaction – as though she’s been wanting to say those words for a long, long time.  “Now, go and do something constructive – find Peeves!”

“Peeves?” stutters Filch, his eyes growing larger than Quaffles.

McGonagall rolls her eyes.  “Yes, Peeves, you fool – Peeves! Haven’t you been complaining about him for a quarter of a century?  Go and fetch him, at once!”

Grumbling, shocked and annoyed, Filch shuffles away.

Professor McGonagall inhales deeply and flourishes her wand once again.  “And now – _Piertotum Locomoter!”_

There is a great crash and clamor as every suit of armor in the hall jumps off of its plinth and stands at attention.  Luna wonders how many students are still sleeping, with all the interruptions.  The Ravenclaws will certainly know that something is happening – first with the scene in their common room, and now with this.  She wonders if they’ll assume it’s Dumbledore’s Army.

“Hogwarts is threatened!”  Professor McGonagall’s voice thunders throughout the corridor, and seems to reverberate off of every wall in the castle.  “Man the boundaries, protect us, do your duty to our school!”

And, with much clanking and clashing, the silver sea of ghost warriors stampedes through the school.

When their noise fades away, Professor McGonagall turns to Luna and Harry.  Her voice sounds quiet and unimpressive after the great clamor of moments before.  “Now, Potter, you and Miss Lovegood had better return to your friends and bring them to the Great Hall.  I shall rouse the other Gryffindors.”


	20. Chapter 20

Luna plunges through the sea of students in the halls, barely managing to keep Harry’s back in sight before her.  Luckily, he’s somewhat impeded by the whispers swirling around them – “Harry Potter!” – “That was him!” – “Harry _Potter!_ ” – and very few people recognize Luna Lovegood, so she’s able to slip through unnoticed.  She trips once or twice on her hem – the robes she’s wearing are Fleur’s, and the French woman is taller than Luna is – but she manages to struggle through, and finally she catches up to Harry just as he leans against the wall to the Room of Requirement.

Harry reaches the bottom of the staircase before she does, and suddenly he’s falling forward.  She throws a hand out to support him, keep him upright, and he regains his balance quickly and pushes his way into the room.

The _crowded_ room.

Bill did as he promised, and alerted the Order of the Phoenix.  He is here, and beside him Fleur, an arm around his waist – their parents, a few other members of the Order, and – for some reason – the members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team as Luna first knew it.

She lets them talk, and she slides past them into the room.  There is only one person she wants to see now.

She feels him before she sees him.  Neville is standing off to the side, not quite in the middle of the group but just slightly apart.  There is an empty space by his side, a space that is somehow cold.  The space that is meant for her, waiting for her to fill it.

Her eyes collide with his.

And then she is moving again, moving slowly but inexorably towards him, drawn like an object to a Summoning Charm, on her course to finally, truly, see him, touch him, feel him –

And then, again, Harry’s voice breaks in, and their eyes slide apart.

“They’re evacuating the younger kids and everyone’s meeting in the Great Hall to get organized.  We’re fighting.”

And then there’s an outcry, an inescapable wave of noise and motion that pushes toward the staircase as people shove through.  Luna can feel Neville in the crowd, can feel him pulling at her with his eyes, with his heart, with his heat –

“Come on, Luna,” says a voice.  It’s not Neville, though – at first it is almost unfamiliar, and then she realizes that it’s Dean.  One of his arms is held out, the fingers extended, waiting for her to take his hand.

She whips her head around for a moment, searches for Neville.  She can still feel him, but she can’t see him anymore; if she doesn’t take hold she’ll be lost in the crowd –

She hesitates for a moment, and then reaches out through the sea of people to catch hold of Dean’s fingers.  He pulls her gently toward him, through the surging masses, and together, they ascend the staircase.

Somehow, Neville has disappeared into the crowd.  Luna doesn’t know exactly where he is, but she can tell that he is somewhere here, not far from them.  And for the moment, that will have to be enough.


	21. Chapter 21

The Great Hall is full of people, swarming with the intense humming energy of fear and uncertainty.  She parts with Dean when they reach the entrance and they go their separate ways; Dean to the Gryffindor table, she to hers.  She takes a seat beside Padma Patil, who’s already there.  She notices that Parvati has paid no attention to House lines; she’s sitting beside her twin, and their hands are interlocked, holding tight, squeezing.

Professor McGonagall is outlining the evacuation plan, but Luna doesn’t need to listen.  It doesn’t matter what the plan is – she already knows that she isn’t leaving.  Not only that she has nowhere to go – she still doesn’t know where they’ve taken her father, though she tries not to think of that.  It’s just that . . . her place is here.

Here, with the side of righteousness.  Here, with her fellow fighters.  Here, with the DA.  Here, with the teachers.  Here, with Harry, Hermione, and Ron.  Here, with Ginny.  Here, with Neville.

Luna rotates her head from side to side, looking for him.  He will be at the Gryffindor table, probably with the other Gryffindor DA members.  The Order of the Phoenix is standing at the staff table with the teachers.  The Order and the DA are the only ones fully dressed – everyone else is still wearing pajamas and slippers.  Some have hastily thrown on dressing gowns.  All look pale, either from sleepiness, or from fear.

She’s just spotted the back of Neville’s head when the voice speaks.

High, cold – hearing it seems to undo all the healing that has happened at Shell Cottage.  It is clear and hard, pitiless, with just the hint of a hiss lying under the words.  She can picture his face clearly in her mind, can hear Ollivander’s screams, can feel and see the crushing darkness all around her – the voice shreds not only her ears, but her self control.  Tears begin to well in her eyes, and she can’t hold them back, especially not when some of her fellow students start to scream.  It only intensifies the feeling of the cellar.

She swallows hard around the sudden choking metal in her throat, clamps her hands tightly over her mouth, trying to hold herself together.  The tears have freed themselves from her eyes and are streaming down her cheeks.  She squeezes her eyes shut; presses her shoulders tightly into her ears, assumes the hunched-up position she used so many times in that cellar – but it can’t block it out –

“You have until midnight.”

With a shudder, Luna straightens up, wipes her eyes.  It was his voice, yes, but it wasn’t him.  He’s not here, in the Great Hall.  He’s waiting outside, yes – but it gives her time.  Time to pull herself together, time to prepare herself, time to fight.

“But he’s there!” cries a voice suddenly.  Pansy Parkinson has risen; she stands beside the Slytherin table, with one finger aimed directly at Harry Potter’s chest.  “Potter’s there – someone, grab him!”

Luna jumps up from her seat.  She might not be brave enough to face Voldemort, but she can – and will – duel Pansy Parkinson if she has to.  She whips out her wand and directs it at Pansy.

And then she realizes that she’s not the only one.  All around her, people are rising – the Gryffindor table, and then the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws.  And, looking over at the Slytherin table, she can see a few students sitting behind Pansy with their wands aimed at her back.  Does Harry truly understand what he means to these people?

“Thank you, Miss Parkinson,” says Professor McGonagall, in a tone that reveals that she would love to have been able to point her wand at Pansy herself.  And then she begins directing the evacuation.

When Professor McGonagall leaves the staff table, a tall, bald man steps forward.  From Ginny’s descriptions, this must be Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Auror.  He begins outlining plans for the battle.

“All right,” he announces finally, “leaders up here and we’ll divide up the troops!”

Luna is up from her seat before anyone else at her table is; she dashes around the table and hurries up to the high table.  She can see and feel others doing the same all around her.

The leaders are spaced out evenly; people are starting to flock to different fighters.  Luna knows this will just be the beginning – she has no idea where she’ll end up.  Even, she thinks with a hint of detached curiosity, _if_ she’ll end up.  Funnily enough, now that it is so near, death does not frighten her – it only intrigues her.

Professor Flitwick is on the far left, Professor Sprout beside him, and Professor McGonagall next.  Fred and George Weasley stand beside each other, but not as evenly spaced as the others.  Are they separate groups, or are they together?  For some reason, Luna feels with a shiver of certainty that they should not split up.

On George’s right is his father, Mr. Weasley.  Kingsley Shacklebolt is beside him, and Professor Lupin stands on the far right.  Luna scans all the groups, and then she makes a beeline for her Charms Professor.

“Hello, Professor Flitwick!” she can’t help saying, beaming up at him.  Despite the urgency of the situation, he gives her a warm smile back.

“Hello, Miss Lovegood.  I’ve missed having you in my class.”

“I’ve missed being in your class,” Luna assures him sincerely.  “I hope I’ll be welcome back.”

“Undoubtedly,” promises Professor Flitwick.


	22. Chapter 22

In the end, their group is made up of the two of them, the Patil twins, Ernie Macmillan, and Lavender Brown.  At the last minute, Fleur and Bill Weasley come rushing over to join them.

“Are we all together then?” asks Professor Flitwick, surveying their small group.  “Excellent.  Shall we head up to Ravenclaw Tower?”

Parvati and Padma are still holding hands; they walk with that sure synchronization that could only have come of years of sharing: a home, a birthday, a womb, a life.  As Luna watches, Parvati extends her other hand to Lavender, and the three of them become a trio, locked together by the hand, as though promising that nothing can separate them.

To Luna’s right, Bill and Fleur’s fingers are also tightly wound together.  As she watches, Fleur stretches over and kisses Bill lightly on the cheek.  The muscles in his face relax for a moment; he melts into her just for a second before pulling away again.  True love is in the moments, Luna thinks, the spaces between that so often slip through the cracks.

And then there is Ernie, walking quickly up beside Professor Flitwick.  His blond hair is ruffled – she realizes she’s never before seen it anything less than perfectly kept – and his legs flexing as he hurries to keep up with the professor, whose legs may be short but who can walk twice as fast as someone twice his height despite that.

And then there is Luna.

She lags behind, breathing hard.  Her legs shake from all the walking, all the running, all the fear of today – tonight?  It is close to midnight now; she has no watch but she can still somehow feel the time ticking away inside of her.  And she knows that with every step she falters, more time is gone, seconds wasted to her weak muscles.

_Tick, tick, tick . . ._

So she clenches her teeth and walks faster.

They round another corner; the stairs grow steeper, dizzying.  Flashes of lights fill the ground below.  Are they defensive spells?

Tick.

Or has the battle already started, though it’s not yet midnight?

Tick.

Their footsteps echo on the stairs.  This part of the castle is dark, still completely deserted.  Somewhere not too far away, they can hear Peeves cackling; loud objects banging.

Tick.

Now everyone is tired; not just Luna.  The sound of heavy breathing fills the staircase; their breath and sweat warms the area.  Bill’s elbow bumps Luna’s arm as he brushes sweaty hair from his forehead; Ernie’s hair is plastered flat against his head.  Only Fleur, the part-veela, looks perfect as usual.

Tick.

Luna can’t help it; a low moan escapes her.  Bill, to the side of her, hears.  He reaches out his hand, the one not wrapped around Fleur’s waist, and takes hers, helping her along.

Tick.

Finally, finally, Luna can hear the noise of Professor Flitwick’s footsteps leveling off, as he escapes from the staircase.  Ravenclaw Tower is above their common room; he leads them up a separate, even thinner staircase.  Now they are single file, hands reaching backwards to stay connected.  Lavender takes Luna’s other hand from the stair above her.

Tick.

And then they’re at the top, emerging as quickly as they can from the staircase.  The fresh air hits Luna’s lungs like water on a parched throat; she inhales deeply, greedily.  It’s cool here, drying their sweat and making them almost shiver.  It’s a prickling sensation, but not unpleasant.  Luna almost enjoys it – she would, if not for what’s coming soon.

Tick.

There’s no point defending the Ravenclaw common room – no one will be patient enough to answer questions tonight.  Spacing themselves out, they arrange themselves at different positions around the curved balcony atop the tower.  They raise their wands, point them down.  At the bottom, wandlights are flashing, but not enough; voices are shouting, but not loud enough – the battle has not yet begun.

Tick.

Their small group assumes a defensive position; Luna inhales, a spell poised on her lips.

Time.

Even if the ticking hadn’t been in her head, counting ominously down ever since the first staircase, Luna would have known it had begun.  The air was filled with a sudden explosion – nothing visible, audible, or tangible, necessarily, but a feeling.  A sense of beginning, of release, of _something_ –

And then it becomes obvious.

The flashing lights are multiplied – Death Eaters, hurling themselves against the boundaries of Hogwarts.  At first they seem to fail, but then, by sheer numbers, they overwhelm.

And then, it is chaos.


	23. Chapter 23

Shouts rebound – curses, exclamations, and a few long, drawn-out screams of terror.  For a moment, Luna can only stare down at the scene, fascinated.  For all its horror, there is something beautiful, something unearthly of the sight.  From up above, it barely looks real – if she squints her eyes just so, then everything blurs together, all she can see are the colors and the shapes.  She can’t make out individual figures –

And then she snaps out of it.  She realizes that this is not the time to become entranced, to disappear.  This is the time to act, to act decisively and readily, to act on instinct, and to be prepared to do what she has to.

Professor Flitwick is speaking now.  “The point of being up here,” he reminds them, “is so that we can see which areas of the castle need defense, and then defend them.  With that in mind, will you all follow my instructions?”

“Yes, Professor,” says Ernie, and they all nod along.

“Very well,” Professor Flitwick says.  “Then, are there any of you who would prefer to stay up here to repair the outer defenses?”

No one volunteers, notices Luna – they all either know they lack the ability or simply desire to go down and truly fight, rather than staying safely out of the way here; want action and blood rather than a position of helpless “usefulness.”  Truth be told, she’s not sure which it is in her case, either.

Professor Flitwick scans them, nods.  “All right.  I will remain up here and fortify the defenses.  Miss Patil, Miss Patil, and Miss Brown, you three may stay together.  You go to the doors and help the defense there.  With the way these forces look, we’ll easily be overwhelmed – and we should at least try to keep them out of the castle.  Mr. and Mrs. Weasley” – his eyes flicker out over the part of the grounds that they can see from this tower – “you should go out near Hagrid’s hut.  Our forces there appear scant.  And Miss Lovegood – you and Macmillan go to the gates.  There will undoubtedly be more people Apparating there.  Are you prepared?”

“Yes,” they chorus together – perhaps not musically, but with a note of courage, of determination, that makes Luna proud to be one of them.  She turns to Ernie, he turns to her – and they run.

They fly down the stairs, holding onto each other so that neither of them will fall.  Up above them they can hear Professor Flitwick speaking, speaking so fast that his incantations blur into one another, and the quiet _whoosh_ as he strengthens the boundaries that the sheer force of the Death Eaters are overwhelming.

One of the windows in the castle is broken, Luna notices, but no one seems to be inside – yet, that is.  They must stop this before too many people are hurt –

And they run faster.

All of Luna’s fatigue seems to have left her; she has the strength of the wind in her legs.  She wonders if there are gods; if they have lent them her power – but then, maybe it is simply her own strength.  Maybe it is the sheer force of her love pushing her forward, keeping her going.

_Daddy, Harry, Hogwarts, Neville –_

Those are the reasons that she is fighting.

Lavender, Parvati and Padma are at the castle doors; she barely has time to exchange a nod with them before she and Ernie fly past, on their way outside –

They don’t make it to the gates.

Those have already been taken, and Hogwarts’ defenders – so few against such a mass – are falling back.  A huge dark shape – a body? – flies past Luna; she has to duck to avoid it.  _Who?_   But she can’t stop and check.

And then they are upon her; the crush of black-robed figures, so much more sinister than the crowds of people in the castle just an hour – less? – ago.  These people have their wands out; the wands are aimed at her.  The face is masked, expressionless.  It doesn’t even look like a person – but it’s like no creature Luna’s ever seen, either.  This face – or lack thereof – is absolute evil.

And Luna points her own wand.

 _“Crucio!_ ” screams the Death Eater, and she ducks; drops to the ground as the jet of light whistles over her head, barely brushing her hair but missing her head.  And suddenly, something clicks in her.

Adrenaline rushes through her veins, flooding her body.  Everything is brighter, clearer, somehow slower.  She knows what to do.

“ _Petrificus Totalus!_ ” she cries, pointing her wand at the Death Eater who tried to strike her down.  She directs the wand just a half-inch to his left; having thrown himself to the side to avoid her spell, he falls right into it, and lands, rigid, on the ground.

Suddenly, there is a rumble beneath her feet, and the ground itself rolls underneath them.  Nothing is stable – the world is suddenly tilted on its axis, and then on the other; the sky drops onto Luna and she’s thrown off of her feet.

She lands hard on her stomach; all the breath leaves her body.  She starts making a curious sucking _unngh_ sound, pulling with caved-in lungs for any air that might be around her; her voice is an empty croak.

No breath – she can’t speak – she can’t say anything; can’t cast a spell, and the Death Eater beside her has gotten to his feet, his wand is out, pointing at her, and she still – can’t – breathe – but _think,_ _Luna, think, you just learned that this year_ and she concentrates everything in her, everything in her mind and heart and brain and spirit on this one – thought – _Impedimenta_ – and the Death Eater is blown off of his feet and she has enough time to right herself.

“ _Sectumsempra!_ ” cries someone to her right, and a piercing scream rips the air beside her into shreds; the tang of blood is already rising copper into the air.  There is a dull, almost damp thud and a silent spray of liquid, splattering her legs and the hem of her too-long robes, and the world turns a strange sepia color, clouded by a heavy mist.  Luna whirls, almost choking on the scent in her lungs, and looks to the ground beside her.

Her heart falters, sinks – drops through her body and almost onto the ground beneath her feet; a body is lying beside her – no one she knows but not a Death Eater; this person is wearing no mask, no black robes, no Dark Mark tattoo.  Her hair is wild and dark, splayed around her head on the ground beside her; her throat is slashed, blood still welling up from the open wound, dripping slowly onto the ground beside her, and her eyes are staring open and empty in death.  Her spirit has fled her body; all that is left is this empty, pale shell, stained, drenched, in scarlet blood –

Luna will never again paint with the color red.


	24. Chapter 24

But there’s no time to wait – no time to dwell on the death of this woman she does not know (and who she now never will know) – she must keep moving, keep watching, keep looking; there’s no time to think, there’s no time to feel; she must somehow block out this horror and fear and pain and death – and she must keep fighting, keep alive.  There will be time to mourn later.

The ground shakes again, rolling and pitching, but this time Luna manages to keep her balance, absorbing the shock in the balls of her feet and her knees and half-jumping into the air to stay upright, but it works – as Death Eaters all around her are thrown to the ground, she remains standing.

None of them are prepared to fight her – she could pick them off one by one, but as she aims her wand at first one, then a second, she’s seized by a sudden reluctance.  Can she do this?  Can she stoop to their level?

But then, as the ground roils again, something bumps into her legs, something wet.  It clings to her robes – she realizes that it’s the hair of the dead woman on the ground, soaked in blood.  And she knows that she can do this.

“ _Stupefy!_ ” she shouts, “ _Petrificus Totalus! Impedimenta!_ ”

And then she runs.

There are too many people here, for the moment, on the grounds – she has to fall back to the castle; keep them out, and her legs are pounding the ground, she’s tripping and slipping but somehow she always ends up back on her feet again; sweat is sliding down her back, her hair sticking to her neck, but she runs as hard as she can, sometimes ducking when she senses a wand pointed at her, letting jets of light soar over her head, feeling the heat of curses brushing by her.  One hits the sleeve of her robes, and she feels the fabric start to unravel; threads sliding easily apart, the mass moving up her sleeve and over her shoulder.  “ _Diffindo!_ ” she whispers, cutting them off at the shoulder so that her right arm is completely bare, fabric slipping off of her left like a toga.  But now the threads won’t get in her way, and she runs harder.

When she gets to the castle, she realizes that it’s too late to guard it.  Parvati, Lavender, and Padma are gone, and with horror she wonders where they’ve gone.  Death Eaters have already swarmed in; she watches a figure in black robes disappear around a corner, the tail of its cloak swishing behind it, and she follows.

The figure turns, hearing her footsteps; her eyes pierce through the eyeholes of its mask and she recognizes the eyes beneath it.  It’s Macnair – Macnair, the one who knocked her out, who snapped her wand, who handed her to Bellatrix, who threw her into the cellar – and for a moment, she’s paralyzed, she can’t speak, can’t move, can’t think –

“If it isn’t Miss Loony Lovegood,” comes his voice, smug, self-satisfied at her terror, and she knows that he’s never heard this nickname before, thinks he’s making it up, but he’s not, and hearing the spiteful nickname from his lips freezes her up –

He raises his wand, points it at her, and she knows he’s going to curse her, going to savor it, to delight in the knowledge that he’s erasing her from the world for good –

“ _Crucio!_ ” he roars, and the spell collides with her hard, knocking her backwards onto the floor.  The pain is bad, but it’s been worse, and her fear of this spell vanished a long time ago – she clenches her teeth together, refuses to scream.

He withdraws, and takes a deep breath, surely to hit her again, even harder, and she can’t let him – if she’s going to die, it will _not_ be by his hands, and though she can barely think through the cloudy haze of pain over her mind –

“ _Rictusempra!_ ”  She doesn’t know what led her to use a Tickling Charm; it was simply the first thing in her mind, but as the spell hits him she can see that it was the right choice.  His hands release his wand to clutch his stomach; he sinks to the ground, laughing so hard he can barely breathe, and he certainly can’t curse her –

She stands up, rises shakily to her feet, and attempts to steady her wand.  It’s still pointing at him, though her hand in the air is trembling.  She hesitates – can she – can she possibly –

But no, she can’t; she couldn’t bear to strike him down, though she hates him and fears him, she doesn’t think she can bring herself to take his life.  He lies on the floor, wheezing with laughter, so pathetic, so helpless –

She withdraws her hand, and starts running again.


	25. Chapter 25

She’s sprinting down the corridor, looking for someone else, another fight to join, when she hears the bangs, and the familiar voice yelling, “ _Stupefy!_ ” and her heart contracts painfully.

_Neville._

Without another thought she is running, her only instinct to get to where he is, to find him, to help him, and then she hears the laugh.

_The laugh._

The laugh that sends icy shivers down her spine, the high-pitched, insane cackle that she’s heard so often –

Bellatrix Lestrange.

And she runs faster.

Skidding around a corner, she finds them – dueling, of course, Neville’s face screwed up in concentration, Bellatrix smiling cruelly, her wand dancing, flickering in the air.  It would be beautiful, the speed and the terrifying power, if it were anyone else, but it isn’t, and it’s Neville she’s attacking –

And Neville’s wand is blasted out of his hand, and Bellatrix raises hers, and Luna sees her mouth form the word, the curse, and – no.

No, because she had to hear it enough, had to hear the pain and the screams and Bellatrix’s twisted pleasure at the sound of having another human being at her mercy, no because she was powerless, forced to listen to the dreadful noise for so long –

She won’t let it happen again.  Anything would be better than having to listen and be unable to stop it.

And Bellatrix shrieks _“Crucio!”_ and it’s too late to stop her, too late to blast her wand out of her hand, because the spell has been cast, and it’s going to hit Neville, and he’ll be on the floor, screaming and writhing, and Luna _can’t let that happen_ –

The thoughts rush through her mind in a split second, or maybe they aren’t thoughts at all, something she knows in her heart, that she doesn’t even need to analyze, doesn’t need to consider, and there’s no time, there’s only one thing she can do, one thing that she knows she’s going to do –

And she throws herself forward, in front of the wand, shielding Neville with the only protection she has left – her own body.

And she feels the curse – truly feels it – for the first time.

Yes, she’s been tortured before, but that was nothing, nothing to this, because they were holding back, because they always had a reason to spare her, but now there is no reason anymore, now Bellatrix is free to inflict as much agony as she wants to, as much as she can, and her fury explodes over Luna – her fury at the girl who managed to escape, the loon who never gave her any satisfaction, the girl who has just robbed her of her target – this fury spills out through her wand, concentrates itself on Luna, and the pain is worse than anything she has ever felt.

The agony consumes everything – her vision goes red, then black, tiny fuzzy starbursts explode before her closed eyes, and the world is pain, her life is pain, nothing, nothing, nothing but pain –

And then, inexplicably, it lifts, suddenly the pain is gone, and Luna is panting on the ground, curled into the fetal position, and she hears Bellatrix snarl something, and the dull thud of a body hitting the wall, but before she can turn, before she can even open her eyes, the pain has hit again, harder than before.

Every nerve in her body is being stretched, stretched until the breaking point, and then just before it can break it snaps back into position only to be stretched again.  It is endless, all-consuming, everything in her body is burning and melting and freezing at the same time, and she can’t feel, she can’t think, just let it _end,_ let me _die_ , but it doesn’t end, and she doesn’t die, and there’s nothing else, nothing in the world, all the faces of those she loves are being ripped away from her, and she thinks on Frank and Alice Longbottom, and this is what happened to them, this is how their lives were destroyed, this is what’s going to happen to her, and if insanity is a release from this pain she’s glad to have it, glad to let go of the last edge she’s been clinging to, and fall, fall, fall –

And then, suddenly, it ends.

It ends, and she wonders if she’s dead, if that is it.  But it can’t be, because her body is shaking, she’s not sure if she’s gasping or sobbing or both, and because she can still hear, faintly and far away, the bangs and shouts, and because it still hurts, too much –

But someone is moving toward her, and now a hand is on her arm, and even though her vision is still black with pain, she knows who it is, who is holding her, because of how warm and right that hand feels on her shoulder.

“Neville,” she whispers, maybe moans, and she hears his sigh of relief.

“Luna,” he breathes, “oh, God, Luna, you’re all right, are you all right?” and panic is edging his voice, and his hand slides down her arm to find hers, and she musters up her last bit of strength and squeezes his fingers.

And his arms are gentle as they wrap around her and carefully, gently, draw her to her feet, and she leans heavily on his shoulder and opens her eyes.

His face is burnt, scarred, bloody, and the best thing she’s ever seen – his warm brown eyes alive with concern and something else, and he opens his mouth to say something, but she knows what he’s going to say and he doesn’t need to.

So she places her finger to his lips and says simply, “I know,” and for the moment everything falls away, the sounds of the battle dim, and Bellatrix is gone, and this moment, this few seconds of peace in a world torn apart, belongs only to them.

His forehead is bloody, bruised – he must have been blasted against the wall – but he still has his wand, and he hands her hers, wraps her fingers around it, squeezes them gently.  “Good,” he says, and then he presses his lips softly to her forehead, sending waves of healing warmth radiating through her body – the pain is only a memory compared to how incredibly _right_ this feels –

And then there’s a yell behind them and they turn to the battle once more.

But he doesn’t let go of her hand.

 


	26. Chapter 26

The real world crashes back down onto Luna as soon as they turn around – there are two Death Eaters facing them, and Professor Sprout stands further down the corridor, behind them.  One hand holds a pot, the other her wand – she takes aim at one of the Death Eaters’ back, a jet of silver blasts from her wand, and he crumples.  The other Death Eater turns around to face her, and Neville throws himself at the Death Eater, wand completely forgotten – his hand wrenches free of Luna’s and he hits the man hard around the knees, knocking him forward onto the ground, in defense of his favorite professor.  While the man is still on the ground, Luna knocks him out with a quick Stunning spell, and runs to help Neville up.

“Neville,” calls Professor Sprout, brandishing the hand with the pot in it, “come, help me with this,” and he looks at Luna briefly, one quick, searching glance, and she nods.  _Go._   He can help Professor Sprout more than perhaps anyone else, with his skill with plants, and he is needed.  And so will she be.

Their eyes lock one last time; their fingers clutch desperately together for one last moment, and before he turns, Neville draws her close for one last embrace.  Before she can move, his lips are hard against hers, once more, for the third time – and, Luna prays, not for the last.  And then he is gone, dashing down the corridor after Professor Sprout, and she is alone again.

But there is no time to stand still.  She must move, she cannot simply wait for Neville because she doesn’t know when he might return – or if, though it pains her to think it.  She must shut off her emotions, and go on.

She turns left at the next corner; runs toward the sound of voices.  Above her, an explosion shakes the floor, but she’s able to keep her footing this time; the floor does not move beneath her own feet.  But the sound makes her look up toward the ceiling in concern, just for a moment, before she starts sprinting again.

Forget the tiredness from earlier; forget the weakness of her muscles; forget her heaving lungs, striving to suck in air – none of it matters.  Because the only things that matter are the lives being lost now, and the ones that will be lost if she does not – somehow – run – faster –

She rounds a corner, feet pounding the floor, though the noise cannot be heard over the screams and bangs and crashes of falling stone and bodies.  She’s in the Transfiguration hallway, now, and the doors of all classrooms have been blasted open; the insides of the rooms are surprisingly empty, all the desks are gone.  The question as to where they are, however, is immediately answered – she hears thundering footsteps running over her head; footsteps too heavy to be human or animal, the footsteps of many, many four-legged somethings . . .

And then, to her right, part of the castle collapses.

Tons of rock topple to the ground beside her, throwing up dust and tiny bits of stone; a few strike her hard in the eyes and she cries out, and then –

Pain explodes from her right leg, searing through her body, causing her to scream and stumble.  She barely has the presence of mind to drag herself to the left, scraping her hand to ribbons on the debris and cracked floor; she is whimpering and sobbing and clutching her right leg close to her body –

And then, suddenly, the world seems to stand still.  There is a cry – an unearthly wail – coming from just above her; the most animal sound a human can make.  It is the roar of a wounded tiger, the fearsome howl of a dying heliopath, the last hoot of a fading owl – it is the sound of pain, pure and undiluted.

And everything stops, just for a moment.  She doesn’t know who it is, who has fallen, but she knows just like that that it is someone she loves, someone she cares for, someone whose loss will haunt and torment her for the rest of her life.  And she presses a hand to her mouth to hold in a cry of her own and turns to inspect her leg.

It isn’t the blood that worries her, though her whole leg looks like ground beef; mangled and scraped from chips of stone.  It’s twisted oddly; sticking out at a strange angle, but there’s no bone sticking out, which is a relief.  She tries to put weight on it and immediately goes lightheaded with pain – instead, she puts her weight on her other leg, and is able to drag herself along.  Right away her left leg starts to ache, burdened with the extra weight of her right, but she continues, her face drawn in pain and with tears dripping down her face – she continues on.

As she hobbles into a different hallway, she looks over the banister to see chaos.  Professor Trelawney stands not to far from her, though she hasn’t seen Luna yet, and to her absolute shock Luna witnesses the teacher, her hair strewn unkempt over her face, draw one of her precious crystal balls from a giant sack, scream, “Take _that_!” and Banish it with her wand.  It falls over the balcony, and lands with a thud against something – and it doesn’t sound like the floor.

Luna keeps going.  She doesn’t know if any of their people are still fighting on the grounds, but maybe if they are, they will need help there.


	27. Chapter 27

She finds Ernie Macmillan in the middle of a duel; the Death Eater doesn’t see her coming up behind his back and she knocks him out easily with a Stunner.  Ernie looks surprised for an instant, and then resentful.  “I was doing fine on my own,” he mutters, too proud to admit he needed help, but then right away, he seems to take it back, to change his mind, to realize that this is no time to be proud.  He smiles at her, albeit weakly.  “Thank you.”

She nods, and then grimaces in pain – her leg buckles beneath her and Ernie reaches out and catches her before she can fall.  “Thank you,” she murmurs in return, barely managing a grateful smile.

“You’re – _Stupefy!_ ”  He points his wand over Luna’s shoulder; she spins on her good leg just in time to see a Death Eater dodge to the side.  He whips his wand back at Ernie and cries, “ _Crucio!_ ”

Ernie collapses on the ground; the air is filled with his screams of pain.  Luna can’t stand it; the darkness rises around her for a moment, she wishes that these memories of the cellar wouldn’t incapacitate her; she wishes she could simply forget them – and then she has an interesting idea.

Pointing her wand at the Death Eater, she murmurs, “ _Obliviate._ ”

Immediately, his wand droops, and Ernie’s screams stop.  As Ernie is moaning his way back to full awareness, Luna looks the Death Eater in the eyes and says calmly, “You’re on our side.”

“On your side?” he questions, bewildered.

“Yes,” Luna says, as though she’s just reminding him of something forgotten.  “You want to help us defeat the Death Eaters.”

“The Death Eaters?” He doesn’t sound proud, as he would have once; instead, he just looks puzzled.  “The ones in the black robes and masks?  We’re trying to defeat them?”

“Yes,” Luna doesn’t think she’s ever sounded so firm.  “Yes.”

Scratching his head, the Death Eater ambles off, looks at all the people in black robes and masks, and shrugs.  Luna looks down at Ernie; his eyes are wide as he watches her.

“That,” he says, and the words seem to be costing him a great deal, “was genius.”

“What was genius?” Seamus Finnigan has come up unnoticed behind Luna, looking and sounding far too cheerful for someone in the middle of a battle.

“Oh.”  Luna shrugs.  It wasn’t really so genius – it was simply a thought, one which happened to work.  A thought which came to her in her moment of despair, and which she turned into hope.

And speaking of despair . . .

She feels them before she sees them, but who can’t?  The black cloaks barely sweeping the ground, the seemingly legless figures simply gliding across the ground – but what she feels is the blackness they exude.  A black hole; a tunnel with no light at its end – and the cellar once again fills her up, seeping into the air around her, practically choking her –

And then ahead of her, she sees a sight which almost throws her into a panic.

Harry Potter has his wand out, looking at the dementors – but his shoulders are slumped.  His head is falling forward.  There is no stag in the air before him.  A few indistinct silver shapes fill the air around him, but they fade quickly, and the dementors are approaching him.  He can’t conjure a Patronus.

Panic is not the same as despair, and it’s enough to shock Luna into action.  She grabs Ernie’s shoulder with her left hand, and Seamus’ with her right, and she pushes them forward and hops herself, wand extended.

At first, when she opens her mouth, she can’t conjure up any happy thoughts.  All she can feel is that empty blankness; the screams are echoing in her ears; the high cold voice which always renders her helpless.  But she feels Ernie and Seamus at her sides; their comforting warmth beside her, their determination and their courage and their resolve, and then unbidden a picture of Neville’s face flashes through her mind; scarred and bloody but _there_ , in front of her; she can hear snatches of his voice filling her head; and suddenly, the brief pressure of his lips on hers –

“ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

The hare bursts from her wand, soars through the air with Ernie’s boar and Seamus’ fox – she wonders what those two are thinking for their Patronuses – and together, the three silver figures collide with the approaching dementors and push them back.  Harry looks up, and closer, Luna is worried by the dullness of his eyes.  He cannot stay strong against the crushing wave of his despair – and she limps closer and puts her hand lightly on his shoulder.

“That’s right,” she whispers, urges, as gentle as she can be – just seeing the three of them alive and unhurt boosts her own spirit enough to help her encourage his – “that’s right, Harry; come on, think of something happy . . .”

“Something happy?” His voice is dull, choked with tears, completely drained of all hope.  The words sound unfamiliar to him.

“We’re all still here,” Luna reminds him; herself and Ernie and Seamus at least, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione, and as long as they are all here and alive then there will always be hope, “we’re still fighting, come on now . . .” _Please, Harry, prove to me that you have hope, prove to me that_ we _still have hope, show us that we can keep fighting . . ._

And finally, after a moment of holding her breath and praying, the light blooms from the end of his wand, the silver stag appears, and Luna lets out her breath.

“Can’t thank you enough,” breathes Ron, his voice trembling as he turns to Ernie, Seamus and Luna, “you just saved our” –

“RUN!”

Harry’s voice comes a split second after the roar; the earth shakes as a giant’s foot thunders onto the ground not far from them – the shock nearly knocks Luna off her feet and they’re all blown to the side; she lands heavily on her bad leg and lets out a shriek of pain, but the two boys haul her up by the arms; Seamus drapes her right arm around his shoulder, Ernie heaves her left arm around his, and they half-carry her, half-drag her back to the battle.  As she risks one last glance over her shoulder, she can see Harry, Ron, and Hermione disappearing towards the Whomping Willow – and then they are gone.


	28. Chapter 28

“You have fought valiantly.”

Luna jumps as the voice echoes suddenly across the grounds again – the voice of her nightmares, but she cannot fall prey to it now, cannot let it shred her to pieces – so she holds her mind firm, presses her lips tightly together, fights the way the voice is trying to bring her to her knees.  She opens her mind to the universe, drifts just slightly away from the world, until she is separated from it by a thin veil, and then she listens, and now she can hear.

“Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery.  Yet you have sustained heavy losses.  If you continue to resist me,” his voice grows, if possible, somehow colder, “you will all die, one by one.”

Images flash through Luna’s mind; she wants to shut them out, but she can’t – Ginny’s body, lying still and white, drenched in blood; Neville limp and cold, splayed out on the ground, unmoving –

No.  She slides out of her mind again, closes her eyes, and then opens them again.  Makes herself continue listening.

“I do not wish this to happen.”  The hypocrisy in his voice makes Luna’s stomach turn, but she ignores it.  “Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste.”

This is true, but Luna does not believe that Lord Voldemort knows it.  She wonders how much of his own speech even he believes, in his own twisted imitation of a mind.

“Lord Voldemort is merciful.  I command my forces to retreat immediately.  You have one hour.  Dispose of your dead” – Luna can’t help but flinch; she sees the woman in her mind, her dark hair drenched in blood, her eyes empty and lifeless – “with dignity.  Treat your injured.

“II speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you.  You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself.”  But that’s not true – they are not giving their lives up for Harry, at least not directly.  They are giving up their lives for freedom, for truth, for justice, for love, for mercy – and Harry is the instrument of all of that.  Luna just isn’t sure if Harry knows this.

“I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest.  If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up” – no, no, no, he can’t do that, but he will, Luna knows, Harry will do that if he thinks it’s the only option – “then battle recommences.  This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me.”  There is a pause, and then he speaks again.  “One hour.”

His words are followed by a ringing silence.

Luna looks around her – everyone stopped fighting as his voice spoke, and now the black-robed figures are indeed retreating, streaming back towards the forest.  A few jets of light streak towards them, but they are few and far between.  The groups of Hogwarts defenders look small, dejected, huddled.  Somehow, Luna lost track of Ernie and Seamus in the chaos, and now she stands alone.

Slowly, she begins to limp back towards the castle.


	29. Chapter 29

“Luna!”

The shriek greets her ears as soon as she’s entered the Great Hall, and a heavy weight hits her hard, almost knocking her flat.  Her vision is obscured by a mass of red hair, and the smell and feeling of the person’s arms around her is so familiar, though they were apart for so long – _Ginny._

“Ginny,” she gasps, half-sobbing, burying her face in Ginny’s long hair, allowing her weight to slump into Ginny’s shoulders.  Holding each other up.

And then, her eyes fall on something behind Ginny’s head, over her shoulder, and she stiffens, her arms fall to her sides in horror.

“What?” asks Ginny, pulling aside, pulling away to look at Luna’s face, at her fixed eyes, and slowly she turns around to look over her shoulder.

“Ginny,” whispers Luna, putting a comforting hand on Ginny’s shoulder – she feels helpless, useless, and Ginny shakes it off right away, and she begins to walk slowly, as though hypnotized, towards the other side of the hall.  To where her older brother is lying motionless on the floor, surrounded by the rest of his family.

“No,” whispers Ginny.  “Fred.”  Her voice is so faint that Luna can barely hear her, but she can feel the words just as well, and her heart breaks along with Ginny’s.  She wants to follow her, but this is a moment which only family should share.

Then something beside Fred catches her eye, and she walks forward, slowly, dreamlike almost, dragging her right leg behind her, to where the bodies of Professor Lupin and his energetic young wife – Luna never met her, but Ginny adored her, and spoke of her all the time, enough that Luna can recognize her on sight – lie.

She drops to one knee beside their bodies; their faces are calm and peaceful, and smooth to the touch.  She thinks with a stab of pain about their young son – barely born, less than a month old –

They _must_ win this war today, there is no other option.  For Teddy Lupin, and for all the other children who are now orphaned, to save them for growing up like Harry has.  They must win.

Madame Pomfrey is on the other side of the hall.  The House tables are gone; instead, the wounded are lying on the raised platform.  She, and assorted students and Order members are bustling around between the tables, occasionally bending over the students, pointing their wands, administering potions – Luna hobbles over to them; perhaps she can do something to help.

“Miss Lovegood!” exclaims Madame Pomfrey as soon as Luna shuffles over to her; before she can get any words out, the matron has embraced her tightly.  “You’re here – I’m so relieved – I hadn’t seen you since December – what _have_ you been doing to yourself?” Her sharp gaze falls onto Luna’s injured leg, her ripped sleeve – Luna didn’t even notice, but her bare shoulder somehow accumulated dozens of scratches – her face – “Miss Lovegood!”  She hurries to her potions store, begins rifling through the bottles there –

“Oh, Madame Pomfrey, no,” insists Luna.  “There are others much worse off than I am.  I can wait.”

“No” – Madame Pomfrey begins to speak, but Luna interrupts her.

“Madame Pomfrey, please.”  There are too many others, injured so badly, too many people lying almost motionless on the stretchers – she looks around and spots Seamus Finnigan, bending over Padma Patil, tipping potion into her mouth; Parvati is standing beside the crumpled form of Lavender Brown; Firenze is lying limply on the dais, bleeding profusely – how can Luna justify fixing her leg, when so many others are so much worse off than she?

“Can I help?” she asks.


	30. Chapter 30

She’s leaning over Katie Bell, gently dabbing ointment onto a gaping wound in the other girl’s leg, when he finds her.

She feels him come up behind her; all her senses are on full alert, and she can hear his footsteps on the ground, feel the air as it shifts to accommodate him, and she recognizes the sound of his breathing.

_Neville._

He pauses directly behind her; his arms wrap around her shoulders and reach forward, hands on top of hers, helping her rub the ointment in.  And when she’s finished, he gently takes her shoulders and turns her around to face him.

The sight of his face fills something in Luna – bloody, scarred even worse than before, one eye swollen shut – it doesn’t matter how battered he appears; she knows she’s just as bad, and it’s enough simply to see him there, in front of her, looking at her with that warm expression in those brown eyes –

“Neville,” she murmurs, and she takes him in her arms.  His body is warm against hers; his head bows forward and she feels him press his lips into the top of her head – heat and peace rise through her body, that same feeling she had in the middle of the battle, her arms tighten around him, and she can sense that they are filling each other up.

“I’ve just seen Harry,” he whispers to her finally, when they break apart.

“You have?”  Automatically, she glances around for him now, and sees him nowhere.  “Where was he?”

“He was on the grounds,” Neville says quietly.  “Leaving the castle.”

Luna stiffens – she hasn’t seen him, and no one seems to know where he is, now.  She casts a glance across the hall – Ron and Hermione look lonely, standing together; there is an empty space beside them.  _He’s gone into the forest._

“He’s gone, hasn’t he?” she asks.

Neville shrugs miserably.  “He said he wasn’t.  But . . . I think so.”

Hermione is frantic when they approach her, Neville’s left arm wrapped around Luna’s waist, steadying her as she walks.  The other girl’s eyes are wide, her hair standing on end, blood and soot smeared across her face, her whole body is stiff, betraying her anxiety.  She runs to meet them, Ron at her side – Luna can see in his eyes that he’s just as afraid as she is, but hiding it better – and stops just in front of them, wringing her hands.

“Harry,” she whimpers, drawing in a shaky breath, “he’s gone.”

“Has he gone into the forest?” asks Luna – if anyone would know, it would be these two.

“We don’t know,” and Ron’s voice is shaking even more than Hermione’s; his freckles pop out like tiny drops of blood on his white face, “we lost track of him in the Great Hall; we thought he was with us, but then he wasn’t” –

Ginny approaches them; her eyes are swollen with tears but she isn’t crying.  She puts her arm around Luna’s other side, so that Luna is standing between Neville and Ginny, her two best friends – the best ones she’s ever had – and Hermione and Ron are facing them.  There is only one person missing – but if they are right, then maybe he will be missing forever.

“Where’s Harry?” asks Ginny, the most innocent of questions but her eyes are now narrowed and she’s practically glaring around at all of them, as though they know but aren’t telling her, as though they are hiding Harry, and Luna prays more than anything that in this moment the air will shift and Harry will appear, pulling off the Invisibility Cloak and apologizing for being gone so long –

But he’s not here, and now Hermione reaches out and takes Ginny’s hand, and Ron takes her other hand so that they are finally all interlocked, but Ron’s other hand is empty and they are all recognizing that someone is missing –

Luna doesn’t know how long they stand there; it could be minutes, hours, seconds, days, just the five of them locked together in wishing, in praying, in denial – in holding their breath and waiting for the sixth person to come along and unite them truly again –

And then the voice rips through the air again, and the words it says are more devastating than any other words could ever be.

“Harry Potter is dead.”

Luna expects cries, screams of shock and despair, but there is nothing.  Instead, everyone freezes, as though a paralysis has fallen over the whole castle, all the grounds.  The color drains from every face; the sparkle from every eye.  No one speaks, no one even seems to breathe.  Beside her, Ginny sways on her feet.  Yet they are all frozen in disbelief.  Maybe if they don’t see it, they can somehow deny it.

“He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him.”  But no – no, that is a lie, and Luna doesn’t understand how Lord Voldemort can fool himself into thinking that anyone will believe it.  They all know Harry – they have all come here for him, to fight for him because they know that he would do the same for them.  They know that he would never run away, because he is Gryffindor to the core, because he would rush into the Ministry of Magic to save a godfather who is not even there, because he would come back to a school where he would have to watch his every step on the off chance that there might be an object here that he needed – Harry Potter does not run, does not flee, and everyone in the room knows it.  If he is dead, it is because he gave himself up.

“We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone.”

If he can show them a body – then there’s no way to refuse to believe it, and everything in Luna protests against the thought of going outside onto the grounds, of seeing Harry lying limp and pale on the ground, the way she’s seen too many people today, and she doesn’t want to see him like that –

“The battle is won.  You have lost half of your fighters.”  Luna scans the hall, her eyes stopping to rest on the bodies across the hall, and with every person another stone seems to drop into her stomach.  “My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished.”  But he’s not, not really – no matter if his body is dead, his spirit will still be alive within each and every one of them – he will never be finished.  “There must be no more war.

“Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman, or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family.  Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared.”  No, they won’t – even if he does not kill them, how many of them will he torture, in body or spirit, now, or in the days to follow?  None of them will be spared, because they have fought against him, because they have resisted.  He will not spare any of them.

“Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.”

They will not build a new world together; he will simply ravage and destroy the world that already exists, and they will all be trampled underfoot.

His voice ceases – he has finished speaking, and the hall is full of silence for one moment, and then Neville breaks it.

“We have to go.”

Every eye in the hall turns to stare at him, but everyone is nodding.  Luna hugs him a little tighter to her, in support and encouragement, and he speaks again.

“We have to meet him, we have to show him that we’re not defeated.  That we are still willing to fight.  With or without Harry.”

“Yes.”  Professor McGonagall’s voice rings out strongly.  “We must go.”


	31. Chapter 31

“ _No!_ ”

Professor McGonagall is in the lead, one of the first to reach the grounds, and at the sound of her voice the world seems to stand still.  Luna knows, hearing that scream, that there is no hope, that Lord Voldemort was telling the truth, that Harry has fallen – she knows this, and still she must see it for herself.  Ginny drops her arm to push forward; Luna stumbles slightly as her weight falls more heavily onto her left leg, but Neville still has her other arm, supporting her, and he helps her push forward.  Bellatrix Lestrange is laughing; her horrible ghastly cackle pulls at Luna’s ears, attracts and repels her at the same time –

“NO!”

This time it is a chorus; Ron’s and Hermione’s voices together – Ron’s horrified, disbelieving, Hermione’s already choked with tears.  And then a beat behind them – Ginny’s red hair is visible in front of Luna as she pushes her way to the front of the crowd – “Harry – HARRY!”

And then Neville and Luna are there, too, at the front of the crowd, and they can see it for themselves.

A cry tears free of Luna’s throat, bursts from her lips, as her eyes fall upon the limp form lying in Hagrid’s unwilling arms.  Harry is pale, motionless; his eyes are closed, his scar stands out angry red on his white forehead – Neville, beside Luna, lets out a moan –

And suddenly everyone is screaming, some in despair, some in anger, some in defiance – their voices rise up, become a swell of intensity and fury, and they are making the Death Eaters nervous, Luna can tell – some begin to shift position, look at the ground –

“SILENCE!” screams Voldemort, and he flourishes his wand, his face twisted into a terrifying grimace, and with a bang, Luna’s tongue seems to twist in on itself and she cannot say another word.  She begins struggling, looking for something – any weak spot in the spell, and for some reason she feels that she might be able to break it.  She begins working harder to move her tongue, to yank it free, so that she can speak, can scream again.

“It is over!” insists Voldemort, and for some reason, Luna thinks that his voice sounds maybe not as confident as it should.  Is there some doubt?  He has killed Harry – the body is before them, for all to see – against her will, a flicker of hope ignites in Luna.

“Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs,” commands Voldemort, and somehow, the fact of Harry’s death protects Luna from that voice.  He gave up his life for her – she will give up her sanity, her thoughts, anything now, to protect the world.  She will not let him tear her down.

As Hagrid, shaking with tears, lowers the body down at Voldemort’s feet, Luna feels a swell of indignation rise up within her.  Harry does not belong at Voldemort’s feet – he is so much better, so much purer a person than the latter – she finds that with the emotion, her tongue is loosening.

“You see?”  Voldemort is pacing now, glaring out at the Hogwarts fighters as he walks up and down, the length of Harry’s body.  “Harry Potter is dead!  Do you understand now, deluded ones?  He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!”

But that is a lie such as Luna has never heard, Harry sacrificed himself for _them_ , not the other way around, and – and – and her tongue is loosening –

“He beat you!” shouts Ron, because it’s true; no matter what happens, Harry has always beaten Voldemort in spirit, in understanding, in wisdom, and with the spell broken Luna adds her own voice to the outcry which has risen up.  Everyone, once again, is yelling, screaming, crying – they will not be silenced.

Luna wonders why this is.  Is it the emotion that will not be reined in, or is it Harry’s sacrifice?  Has he done something to ensure this?

Finally, there is a louder bang, a more energetic flourish of the wand, and Luna’s tongue curls in on itself again.

“He was killed,” and if this were really the truth, Voldemort would sound surprised, thinks Luna, not satisfied the way he does now, so it must be a lie, Harry must know we would never doubt him, “while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds, killed while trying to save himself” –

And that is when Neville snaps.

Luna lets out a cry of pain as he lets go of her and she falls heavily onto her injured leg; she sinks to the ground and her leg twists agonizingly underneath her, but that isn’t important – nothing is important now, only Neville, dashing across the lawn, wand directed at Voldemort –

Voldemort flicks his wand, and there is a loud bang and a flash of light – _no!_ – and Neville falls hard to the ground; Luna heaves herself up by holding onto Ginny’s shoulder, eyes locked on the now-motionless figure of Neville on the ground, and now she knows exactly how Ginny feels –

But now Neville is moving, fighting to stand again, and he rises, stands tall and proud in the middle of the lawn, a tiny figure between Voldemort and the crowd, in the space between both sides, and Luna knows that whatever he does right now is his own path to walk, so she holds onto Ginny and waits.

“And who is this?”  Anger and devastation and worry for Neville have completely wiped out the shredding effect that this voice has on Luna’s mind.  She holds firm, despite her swaying, ignores the pain in her leg, eyes locked on Neville’s straight back.  “Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?”

The delight in his voice sickens Luna; she tries to hobble in his direction but stops with a gasp of pain, and Ginny puts her arm around Luna’s shoulders again and holds her back.

Then there is the awful laugh again; the twisted sound of Bellatrix’s perverse pleasure, and seeing her facing Neville like this makes Luna angry enough to kill.  This is the woman who destroyed his life – and she is mentioning it right now, proud of it.

“It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord!  The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble!  The son of the Aurors, remember?”

How dare she mention Neville’s parents; how _dare_ she?  “Ah yes, I remember,” says Voldemort, and he sounds almost pleased.  “But you are a pureblood, aren’t you, my brave boy?”

“So what if I am?” says Neville defiantly, and Luna’s heart wants to burst with pride and fear at the same time.  She loves Neville more at this moment than ever before.

“You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble stock,” – but he never cared about Neville’s predecessors, not when his lieutenant was torturing them – “you will make a very valuable Death Eater.”  _Will?_   He’s offering Neville the chance to join the organization that ruined his parents and his life?  “We need your kind, Neville Longbottom.”

“I’ll join you,” Neville takes a breath, “when _hell freezes over._ ”  Luna’s body and soul fill up with air, lighter than balloons, despite her fear – she is so proud of the leader that Neville has become.  And he turns to the crowd and shouts, “DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY!”

Luna’s tongue breaks free from its bonds and she screams, “YES!” as loudly as she can, and so is everyone around her.  The spells can’t hold them; there is no question about it – so what does this mean for the fight?  Could it be that Voldemort has not yet won?

“Very well,” and the voice this time sends a prickle up Luna’s spine.  It is low, and soft, and chilling.  “If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan.  On your head be it.”

He flicks his wand, but Neville does not fall to the ground.  Instead, something flies out of a window of the castle, swooping low over their heads.  Luna looks at it carefully as it soars over her – the Sorting Hat.  But why?

“There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School,” announces Voldemort.  “There will be no more Houses.  The emblem, shield, and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone . . . _won’t_ they, Neville Longbottom?

“Neville here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me.”

Luna watches, horrified, struggling against Ginny’s – and now Hermione’s, too – grip on her shoulder, as he immobilizes Neville, stuffs the hat on his head, and – with a flick of his wand, sets it aflame.


	32. Chapter 32

A sound emanates from Luna, a kind of shriek she has never heard, much less made, ripping out of her throat, vibrating through her body.  With a burst of strength she breaks free of the other girls’ grip on her shoulders and dashes forward – she only makes it a few steps before she collapses with a cry of pain, but even on the ground, unable to run, she crawls, dragging herself on her hands across the ground towards Neville; she must reach him, she must, she has to –

And then a new sound reaches her ears.  Roars, cries, shouts, the thundering of many footsteps – dozens, hundreds of people storming from the far boundary of the castle, hordes of fighters, fresh, rejuvenated, ready to fight – reinforcements.  A giant roars – Hagrid’s half-brother, she thinks – and hurls itself at Voldemort’s own giants.  The centaurs canter from the edges of the forest, arrows soaring in arcs from the trees to land among Voldemort’s forces, who break ranks, swarming forward to surround Harry’s body, and Luna loses sight of him for a moment –

And then she watches Neville, because he is moving.

He is moving, somehow free of the Body-Bind Curse which could not hold him, reaching up to the burning hat – it falls off of his head, and midair he pulls from it something long and gleaming, something Luna recognizes, because of how hard they fought to steal it – the Sword of Gryffindor.

And then he spins, swings – the silver blade strikes at the snake, slicing through skin and scale and muscle, slashing high and upward, and blood sprays, the head flies through the air and Voldemort _screams_ –

And then, amidst the cries and curses and yells as the battle starts again, Hagrid’s voice rises above it all.  “HARRY!” he bellows.  “WHERE’S HARRY?”

Luna looks, but can’t see – she struggles to lift herself from the ground, and then Hermione and Ginny are there, picking her up, holding her between them, carrying her to the castle, dodging the jets of light, the splatters of blood, soot, debris which fill the air –

“Bellatrix,” she says, and she doesn’t have to say any more.  Hermione’s left hand goes to her throat, touches the thin scar there which Bellatrix must have left, and Ginny’s eyes blaze up, almost shooting flames, and Ginny puts her left arm around Luna, and Hermione holds her up with her right, and they help her stagger into the hall.

They find Bellatrix right away, just beside her master, casting curses at all in the hall, screams trailing behind her wand like smoke from fire, following it in a beautiful, terrible, deadly path.  Someone falls at her wand, someone Luna doesn’t know, but it gives her fury enough, strength enough, to let go of the other girls, draw her wand, and force herself to run.

“Fight!” she hears, in a croaky voice, and a battalion of house-elves storms past her, waving knives and screaming in their tiny voices, eyes gleaming with determination and the will to fight.  She thinks of Dobby, the brave little elf, and her heart sinks for a moment, but then she knows – _yet another death to attest to Bellatrix_ – and she runs harder, ignoring her pain, determined to put an end to this woman who has destroyed so many lives, tortured so many people – Hermione, Neville’s parents, Luna herself – and who takes such joy in evil – _she must be stopped._

The three girls find her, corner her, and their wands are soaring – Luna can’t bring herself to kill; can’t bear to weaken her own soul that way, but she shoots Stunners and Body-Bind Curses and Impediment Jinxes, Tickling Charms and Memory Charms, verbal and nonverbal – Bellatrix dodges and blocks them all, returns them with jets of green light, but she manages to dodge every one, sometimes throwing herself to the ground and returning fire from there – if they can just stop her, just slow her down, then someone else can come, can help – they can imprison her, they can lock her away for life, or maybe someone else will strike the final blow –

And then a jet of green light streaks by Ginny, barely missing her, severing the sleeve of her robes, and Luna’s heart wells up into her throat; her eyes narrow, she heaves herself to her feet –

“NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!”

Molly Weasley’s cloak falls to the side as she hurls herself at Bellatrix, face contorted in fury and hatred; eyes flashing fire – more so than even Ginny’s ever have.  “Out of my way!” she cries, and the three girls fall back; Ginny and Hermione grabbing Luna’s arms to pull her to the side, but they remain at the ready, wands out and aimed, and out of the corner of her eye Luna can see Neville, Ron, Dean beginning to run to help, but Molly wards them off.  “Get back!” A jet of light flies from her wand.  “Get _back!_ She is _mine!_ ”

The curses fly thick and fast, from both sides – neither woman will back down.  There is only one way this duel will end, and soon the air is charged with heat; Bellatrix’s smile fades into a scowl.

Molly Weasley has the same strength that she has passed on to her children, Luna sees – she’s seen flashes of it before, when she reprimands her twins or in the Howler that Ron received on Luna’s first day of school, but she’s never seen the woman with this steel in her eyes.  And suddenly, she knows what is going to happen.

“What’s going to happen to your children when I’ve killed you?” singsongs Bellatrix, despite her panting, despite the sweat that is beginning to bead on her forehead.  “When Mummy’s gone the same way as Freddie?”

“You will _never_ ,” shrieks Mrs. Weasley, “touch our children – _again!_ ”

And then, with one last breath, one last curse, one last jet of light, it is over.

Bellatrix seems to fall in slow motion; her feet leave the ground, her hair flies forward, beside her face, tendrils twisting through the air, her last twisted smile frozen on her face – and then she hits the floor, and the Great Hall explodes.  Screams rend the air, cries of elation and relief, and suddenly, Neville is beside Luna, his hand reaching out for hers.  Ginny and Hermione relinquish her, let her fall into Neville’s arms, and the whole hall seems to turn to face Voldemort.

A surge of power fills the air, and with the loudest blast yet today, Professors Slughorn and McGonagall, as well as Kingsley Shacklebolt, are thrown backwards through the air, blasted in different directions, flailing their limbs – Professor McGonagall is the last to fall; she slams hard into a pillar, shoulder first, and crumples to the ground, not rising again.  Luna wants to go check on her, but all else is forgotten as Voldemort, radiating fury, turns to face Molly Weasley.

“ _Protego!_ ” shouts a voice, a very familiar voice, and Luna feels the Shield Charm pushing at her, expanding between Voldemort and Molly, and then she watches as a silvery Invisibility Cloak slowly falls to the side, seeming to peel out of thin air, and Harry Potter, very much alive, materializes in the middle of the Great Hall.


	33. Chapter 33

“Harry,” she breathes – she can’t scream it, her shock is so complete, but now she realizes – if they had hope before, hope now that there were hundreds of new reinforcements, then their hope is truer now than it was then; truer now than it has maybe ever been.  There are cries; Hermione and Ron and Ginny have their hands over their mouths, but then they are stifled right away as green eyes lock onto red, and Harry and Voldemort begin to circle.

“I don’t want anyone else to try to help.”  Harry’s statement is so typical, so true of him, so unlike everything Voldemort has accused him of, that it almost makes Luna smile.  She holds tightly to Neville’s arms, wrapped around her and holding her upright; watches Harry intently.  “It’s got to be like this.  It’s got to be me.”

“Potter doesn’t mean that,” and the words seep from the lipless mouth almost like a snake’s hiss.  “That isn’t how he works, is it?”  Oh, but it is – and Voldemort knows it; why is he attempting to discredit Harry before the whole Great Hall?  Does he truly think that anyone will believe him?  “Who are you going to use as a shield today, Potter?”

“Nobody.”  Harry’s response is short, concise, and immediate.  He seems to be facing Voldemort with no fear at all; far from the boy who stood disorganized and panicked in the middle of the Room of Requirement, he has somehow gained a new confidence.  “There are no more Horcruxes. It's just you and me. Neither can live while the other survives, and one of us is about to leave for good.”

What is a Horcrux, Luna wonders?  Does it have something to do with the object Harry was seeking?  She resolves to look later, to try to find the answer, or to wait for it to come to her, but now – now, she must stay present.  She must focus, she must listen, because this confrontation is – she is sure, one way or the other – the end.

"One of us? You think it will be you, do you, the boy who has survived by accident, and because Dumbledore was pulling the strings?"  Voldemort’s mouth stretches into a horrible, taunting leer, and Luna shivers.  Neville’s arms are still resting against her, and she can feel the goosebumps rippling across his skin; the hair rising like the quills of a provoked hedgehog.

“Accident, was it,” and Harry’s voice is almost sarcastic, as though he’s laughing at Voldemort’s inability to comprehend something so simple, “when my mother died to save me?  Accident, when I decided to fight in that graveyard?  Accident, when I didn’t defend myself tonight and still survived, and returned to fight again?”

“ _Accidents!_ ” cries Voldemort, and Luna recognizes in his voice the same thing she heard earlier – denial.  He is a cornered animal; this controlled disbelief is his only hope for survival, and he is clinging to it.  “Accident and chance and the fact that you crouched and sniveled behind the skirts of greater men and women, and permitted me to kill them for you!”

“You won't be killing anyone else tonight. You won't be able to kill any of them ever again. Don't you get it? I was ready to die to stop you from hurting these people” –

“But you did not!”

“I meant to, and that’s what did it.”  Their voices interrupt one another, bouncing off of each other; the conversation – is it a conversation? – switching back and forth like the Quaffle between Chasers.  “I've done what my mother did. They're protected from you. Haven't you noticed how none of the spells you put on them are binding? You can't torture them. You can't touch them. You don't learn from your mistakes, Riddle, do you?”

“ _You dare_ ” –

Voldemort’s face contorts in rage, and still, Harry remains unmoved.  “Yes, I dare,” he says calmly, simply.  “I know things you don’t know, Tom Riddle.  I know lots of important things that you don’t.  Want to hear some, before you make another big mistake?”

The Great Hall seems to be holding its breath, under a spell.  No one speaks.  No one moves.  No one but the two in the middle, tracing together a perfect circle, wands extended from the opposite sides, held at the same level.

“Is it love again?”  Voldemort’s voice is mocking, and yet, somehow . . . afraid.  “Dumbledore's favorite solution, _love_ , which he claimed conquered death, though love did not stop him falling from the tower and breaking like an old waxwork? _Love_ , which did not prevent me stamping out your Mudblood mother like a cockroach, Potter – and nobody seems to love you enough to run forward this time and take my curse.  So what will stop you dying now when I strike?”

Harry’s voice is soft now, a whisper.  “Just . . . one . . . thing.”  The words stretch out, tantalizing, and Voldemort is completely enthralled.

“If it is not love that will save you this time, you must believe that you have magic that I do not, or else a weapon more powerful than mine.”  Voldemort’s voice projects confidence, but it still contains an edge, a razor of fear.

“I believe both.”

Voldemort’s laughter, high and insane, echoes crackling over the hall.  And now, for the first time, it causes Luna no fear.  “You think you know more magic than I do?  Than I, Lord Voldemort, who has performed magic that Dumbledore himself never dreamed of?”

But just skill, Luna thinks, skill and inventiveness is not enough.  Voldemort is clever, skillful, powerful – but he is not wise.  Harry, young as he is, has wisdom.  Dumbledore had wisdom.  And she’s starting to realize that it may simply be wisdom, not power or skill, that wins this war.

“Oh, he dreamed of it,” says Harry, almost carelessly, “but he knew more than you, knew not to do what you’ve done.”

But what has he done?  
“You mean he was weak!”  Voldemort’s shriek echoes off the walls of the Great Hall, and yet still, Luna does not flinch.  “Too weak to dare, too weak to take what might have been his – what will be mine!”

“No, he was cleverer than you,” wiser, Luna thinks, “a better wizard, a better man.”

“I brought about the death of Albus Dumbledore!”  Voldemort says this as though it will surprise them, as though it will impress them, as though they need to be reminded of what a great wizard he is.  As though they are a crowd which he expects to win over.

“You thought you did, but you were wrong.”

But what does Harry mean by this?  Does he mean that Dumbledore is not dead, or does he mean that it was not by Voldemort’s plan – does he mean that – that whatever it is, that hesitation or reluctance in Snape’s hands and eyes was real?  Does he mean that – can he –

“ _Dumbledore is dead!_ ” insists Voldemort, his eyes wide and red and fearful.  “His body decays in the marble tomb in the grounds of this castle!  I have seen it, Potter, and he will not return!”

“Yes, Dumbledore’s dead,” Harry agrees, nodding as though he and Voldemort are simply having a polite discussion, “but you didn’t have him killed.  He chose his own manner of dying, chose it months before he died, arranged the whole thing with the man you thought was your servant.”

Then – then – then –

“What childish dream is this?” howls Voldemort, but Luna knows exactly what this dream means.

“Severus Snape wasn’t yours,” says Harry calmly.  “Snape was Dumbledore's, Dumbledore's from the moment you started hunting down my mother. And you never realized it, because of the thing you can't understand. You never saw Snape cast a Patronus, did you, Riddle? Snape's Patronus was a doe, the same as my mother's, because he loved her for nearly all of his life, from the time when they were children. You should have realized; he asked you to spare her life, didn't he?”

So that was his soft spot – Luna knew he would have had one; everyone does, and yet the stern professor always seemed so forbidding, so stark black and white – but Lily Potter, Harry’s mother, must have been his one spot of brightness.

“He desired her,” Voldemort spits, “that was all.”  He looks around as though daring anyone to argue with him.  “But when she had gone, he agreed that there were other women, and of purer blood, worthier of him” –

“Of course he told you that,” interrupts Harry, almost rolling his eyes, “but he was Dumbledore's spy from the moment you threatened her, and he's been working against you ever since! Dumbledore was already dying when Snape finished him!”

Already dying?  But how –

“ _It matters not!_ ”

Voldemort’s outburst comes suddenly, rapidly, followed by a laugh; a high, insane, terrifying laugh.  But it sounds more out of control than he has been all night – tormented by the ways that people were able to keep things from him, by the secrets that have passed him by.  Does he still believe that his defeat is impossible?

“It matters not whether Snape was mine or Dumbledore's, or what petty obstacles they tried to put in my path! I crushed them as I crushed your mother, Snape's supposed great _love_!  Oh, but it all makes sense, Potter, and in ways you do not understand!”

He pauses, and Luna looks into Harry’s eyes.  As sure as Voldemort seems that the younger boy – no, man – will not be able to understand what he says next, Luna is surer that it is Voldemort who is being passed by.

“Dumbledore was trying to keep the Elder Wand from me! He intended that Snape should be the true master of the wand! But I got there ahead of you, little boy – I reached the wand before you could get your hands on it, I understood the truth before you caught up. I killed Severus Snape three hours ago, and the Elder Wand, the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny is truly mine! Dumbledore's last plan went wrong, Harry Potter!”

The Elder Wand?  Luna remembers back, falls into memory of a day, months ago – remembers her stand in the compartment, remembers the ringing in her ears and the pain in her head, remembers the sign she saw, the sign of the Deathly Hallows.  She thinks of Harry, and his Invisibility Cloak, and the Elder Wand . . . and slowly, the pieces start to fall into place.

“Yeah,” agrees Harry.  “It did.  You’re right.  But before you try to kill me, I’d advise you to think about what you’ve done.”

Think about what he’s done?  Luna casts her mind back seventeen years, and then further back before that – all the murders, the torture, the bodies strewn about in the streets and on the grounds and lying twisted under his own sick devices – if he could, if he were capable of thinking about what he’s done, then he never would have done it at all! This, what Harry is asking, is surely an impossibility . . .

“Think,” murmurs Harry, “and try for some remorse, Riddle . . .”

“What is this?”

Remorse . . . does the word mean anything to him anymore?  Voldemort’s face reflects blank shock, almost an inability to comprehend; his already-white face pales even more.  He is more than shocked: He is afraid.

“It’s your last chance,” whispers Harry, compelling, his voice almost a croon, “it’s all you’ve got left . . . I’ve seen what you’ll be otherwise.”  Luna feels her mind opening up – what will he be otherwise?  Surely there can be no afterlife waiting for him, heaven or hell or anything in between, because his evil stretches the boundaries of the world.  Perhaps that will be his punishment for all the cruel, horrible things he has done – perhaps he will simply not exist, his name nothing but a memory, and his body nothing but ashes, when he fades . . . because he will fade, someday . . .

“Be a man,” coaxes Harry, “try . . . try for some remorse . . .”

“You dare” – but now fear has taken over Voldemort’s face; his pupils completely contracted, his nostrils flared.

“Yes,” says Harry, and his voice is firm again, “I dare.  Because Dumbledore’s last plan hasn’t backfired on me at all.  It’s backfired on you, Riddle.”

Both hands – the white one with long, spiderlike fingers, and the other; smaller, but firmer – tighten on the wands; the circle is still perfect, the lines of their hands and wands still drawn straight into it, and Luna wonders what force is guiding both of them –

“The wand still isn’t working for you because you murdered the wrong person.  Severus Snape was never the true master of the Elder Wand.  He never defeated Dumbledore.”

“He killed” – repeats Voldemort, but not as intensely as before, and his voice has an air of grasping at straws.

“Aren't you listening? _Snape never beat Dumbledore!_ Dumbledore's death was planned between them! Dumbledore intended to die undefeated, the wand's last true master! If all had gone as planned, the wand's power would have died with him, because it had never been won from him!”

This is similar to things Mr. Ollivander has told Luna, when they were both together in the darkness of the cellar, struggling not to drown in despair.  She remembers those days, those nights – but were they days or nights? – and feels herself beginning to sink again, but she focuses on the feeling of Neville’s arms around her, holding her tightly, keeping her safe, and she holds herself in the present.

“But then, Potter,” and Voldemort still finds arguments to throw back at Harry, although there seem to be none left, “Dumbledore as good as gave me the wand!  I stole the wand from its last master's tomb! I removed it against its last master's wishes! Its power is mine!”

“You still don’t get it,” Harry sighs, “do you, Riddle?  Posessing the wand isn't enough! Holding it, using is, doesn't make it really yours. Didn't you listen to Ollivander? _The wand chooses the wizard_ _. . .” His fingers tighten on his wand, which, Luna suddenly notices, isn’t his . . . she actually recognizes this wand, but she last saw it in a different hand – and then understanding dawns upon her, but there is still one last piece of the puzzle to be fit in . . ._

 _“The Elder Wand_ recognized a new master before Dumbledore died, someone who never even laid a hand on it. The new master removed the wand from Dumbledore against his will, never realizing exactly what he had done, or that the world's most dangerous wand had given him its allegiance.”

Was he up on the tower then?  Luna knew he was a Death Eater, knew he was involved, and yet . . . and yet . . . it fits.

“The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy.”

Voldemort’s breath stops for a moment, and then he inhales, and his eyes grow sharper.  He no longer looks afraid.  He looks . . . ready.

But so does Harry.

“But what does it matter?” Voldemort’s voice is smooth and low once more, dangerous, deadly.  “Even if you are right, Potter, it makes no difference to you and me. You no longer have the phoenix wand: We duel on skill alone…and after I have killed you, I can attend to Draco Malfoy . . .”

“But you’re too late.”  Harry’s voice is confident; behind his studiously blank face a smile seems to lurk.  “You’ve missed your chance – I got there first.  I overpowered Draco weeks ago; I took this wand from him.”

 _Malfoy Manor_.  The words hit Luna like two separate blows – but finally, she understands, finally the puzzle makes sense to her.  She doesn’t know exactly what happened after she and Dean and Mr. Ollivander left, but she has a good idea . . . a picture in her mind.

“So it all comes down to this, doesn’t it?”  Harry’s voice is so soft it is almost a dream; everyone seems to strain forward, trying to hear.  “Does the wand in your hand” – he leans toward the Elder Wand – “know its last master was Disarmed?”  The pause is long, breathless, seeming to hang in the air –

“Because if it does . . . I am the true master of the Elder Wand.”

It happens in an instant, but it is the longest instant of Luna’s life.  She knows what’s going to happen right before it does – and when it does, it all happens at once.

The Great Hall is alight; a dazzling, fiery beam of light, gold and orange and crimson all at the same time, strikes the ceiling – a sunbeam reflects off the ceiling and the walls and sets the hall ablaze; burning and scorching – the sun sears through Luna’s body and she feels as though it’s opening her; burning, perhaps – perhaps dawning on a new age?

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

“ _Avada Kedavra!_ ”

The two voices cry in unison, one low, one high, but mingling together in a chorus of tones, indistinguishable from one another, and from the middle of the circle – is it simply a reflection of the sun, or is it coming from the collision? – Luna feels she could draw it; a point in the dead center of the perfect circle, blazed through the middle from the two wands, the two shorter lines almost meeting in the middle – a perfectly-drawn shape, lines and a point – and then there’s an interruption –

Instead of deflecting one another, both spells reflect to the same side – Voldemort’s.  The Elder Wand flies high, flipping end over end, a dark shape in the air, just a tiny shadow, so insignificant and yet so huge at the same time, and then the wand falls to earth, and Harry clasps it in his hand just as she’s seen him pull the Snitch out of seemingly empty air, and then the other spell hits home, and – and –

Voldemort, now simply a dark figure against the blazing light, so insignificant compared to his reputation, compared to all the evil he has done and all the mayhem he has caused – Voldemort hits the ground, seeming shrunken in on himself, smaller, and – and – and he does not rise again.

There is an instant where no one seems to understand it, no one seems to believe it, and Harry stands alone, a wand in each hand, shell-shocked and blank – behind his confidence, perhaps even he didn’t believe he could come through it – no one moves, no one breathes, no one even thinks, and then suddenly – suddenly –

Neville’s arms shift so that she’s half-standing, half-leaning against him, and then he runs and she staggers, right behind Ron and Hermione, close to Ginny, and Luna thinks she’s sobbing, but she can’t be sure, because this is _it_ , this is the _end_ , the end of fear and uncertainty and horror and darkness – it is the end of all that is terrible, and it is the beginning of something new, of a new time and a new age –

And then they are together, the six of them, enmeshed together in a tangle of arms and legs; all pain has fled Luna’s leg and she thinks of nothing, nothing but the five people surrounding her, nothing but the new age that they will build together.


	34. Chapter 34

And then – and then they are swarmed.

Dozens, hundreds, crush upon crush of people are on them, upon Harry, and Luna is pressed between them – the air is filled with the steam of hot breath and sticky sweat, the bittersweet mixture of elation and grief; it’s all so heavy she feels crushed by it –

And then they are wriggling free; she, Neville, and Ginny – and now Ron and Hermione have joined them, the first exhilarating gasp of fresh air rushes into her lungs, and in the relief, everything she was using to hold herself up sinks away; her leg buckles and her whole body goes limp; rather than any of the others, Ron is the one to catch her before she can hit the floor.

Soon, though, the hordes of people sweep them all apart.  Luna finds herself pushed away from Ron, not walking on her own but simply riding the waves of people and euphoria, until finally, she finds herself sitting alone on a bench.  Her left leg is bent normally; her foot rests firmly on the ground, but her right leg is still sticking straight out; the scrapes have stopped bleeding, though the flesh still looks mangled.  It hurts more than ever, but she can’t see bone, and she doesn’t want to waste treatment.  The more seriously wounded are being transported to St. Mungo’s.

She doesn’t want to go.  She wants to stay here, where the battle has been won; where everyone is; where Ginny is, where Neville is.

She hears footsteps; from the way the weight hits the ground she can tell that it’s Harry.  “Hi,” she greets him quietly, looking up as he sinks down beside her, but he says nothing; merely lets out a heavy sigh.

She looks over at him.  His face is pale and drawn; his eyes are sunken in his face.  His forehead is creased with exhaustion and something else; lines which weren’t there last year, and which shouldn’t be on the face of any seventeen-year-old.  He looks around at all the masses, at the people who are, even now, on their way over to the bench, with something like dread.

“I’d want some peace and quiet if it were me,” she offers sympathetically.

“I’d love some,” he murmurs, drawing a hand over his face and closing his eyes, looking as though he yearns for nothing more than a long sleep, to lie down and simply shut his eyes to the world for awhile, to, if just for a few hours, forget, so that he can open his eyes to a new world once again.

“I’ll distract them,” she promises, laying a hand gently on his shoulder.  “Use your Cloak.”

She looks out the window for some way of distracting anyone near him and sees a strangely-shaped bird.  It’s not quite a Humdinger, but it looks close enough, and it’ll work for a quick distraction.

“Ooh, look,” she says loudly, pointing out the window at the bird flying by, “a Blibbering Humdinger!”

Not many people can hear her, but those who do, those who were on their way to Harry, turn around, and she watches Harry disappear under the silvery fabric.  She hears his footsteps as he stands, and then they fade, disappearing into the distance until she is alone again.

Her eyes find Neville – he’s never too far out of her sight.  He is sitting at the Ravenclaw table – _her table_ – beside his grandmother, and the Patil twins, and Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein, eating; the light reflects off of the gleaming rubies on the handle of the sword of Gryffindor, and Luna watches him, feeling as though there’s a beam between her eyes and him, connecting them, drawing them together –

He turns.

His eyes meet hers right away, as though they were waiting there for her the whole time, all day, all his life, all hers.  Warmth spreads through her, from the roots of her hair to her cheeks to her shoulders, to the tips of her toes.  She smiles at him, and he stands.

He makes his excuses to the twins, to the boys, to his grandmother, and he turns, turns to face her, and he walks slowly, dreamlike, across the hall to her; his eyes are locked on hers the whole way.

“Hi,” he breathes when he reaches her, standing in front of her bench.

“Hi,” she replies, calmly despite the fact that her heart is beating out of her chest and her blood is pounding through her body at twice as fast as usual.  Despite all the time that they’ve had together, it feels for some reason brand new.  Just like everything.

“It’s over,” he murmurs, looking surprised despite the hours that they’ve had to digest it.  Luna understands how he feels; part of her wonders if it will ever sink in.  Tomorrow, maybe, after she’s slept, or after her leg has been healed, or maybe in a few weeks, after the castle has been repaired, or maybe when she’s grown and has the chance to live her own life without the constant fear of always having it taken from her – or perhaps they will simply never sink in.  Perhaps she’ll wake up tomorrow and have to remind herself that she’s safe, and then again the next morning, and then again, and again, and again . . .

But for now, as Neville says, it is over.

“Yes,” she agrees, reaching out and taking both his hands, drawing him down beside her on the bench.  “It’s over.  Or, at least,” she corrects herself, “parts of it are.”

“Parts of it?”  Neville smiles at her, slightly confused, but his smile is still everything that she wants, everything she needs.  It is slow, but it lights up his face from within; his brown eyes are warm and dancing.

“Yes,” she murmurs absentmindedly, turning his left hand over in hers.  She traces her finger along the lifeline of his palm, wondering if it has been extended now that this battle has been fought and won.  “Parts of it.  This battle is over, the war is over, but life is not.”  She flips his hand over again; this time, she laces her fingers through his.  “Some things,” she smiles slightly back at him, “are just beginning.”

“Yes.”  He squeezes her hand; his smile is a beacon of light, drawing her in.  His right arm reaches out and wraps around her shoulder, drawing her closer to him.  His warmth fills her, sunshine rising up through her body and almost spilling over.  In this moment, she is perfectly content.

Neville leans down; his lips brush lightly, softly, against her forehead.  “Yes,” he repeats.  “Yes, they are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, forgive my teenage self. A lot of this makes me cringe to look back on it now - but for the most part, my take is similar, and I thought I might as well bring this over to this website. I hope you enjoyed, or at least didn't want to stab your eyes out!


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